


The Power in Red

by 3rdstarksistr



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Minor Melisandre/Stannis Baratheon, Minor Sansa Stark/Stannis Baratheon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 71,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdstarksistr/pseuds/3rdstarksistr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine a Westeros where Melisandre had sailed with Stannis to King's Landing, rather than be left behind at Dragonstone, and invoked sorcery with wildfire to allow Stannis to overcome the city before Tywin and the Tyrell host could arrive. The Blackwater turned red with the fire of R'Hllor not green with that of the pyromancers, and the fates of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane become intertwined in their desperation to find a way to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At the stern of the ship, she burns bright, the ruby at her throat shining out like the sun over the Blackwater despite the dark of night. Arms outstretched and red cloak billowing behind her, the magic of the red fire is fluid and emanating from her spirit. She could feel the energy of it, the wildfire, as it sailed to them, and she enchanted it, controlled it, despite the arrows lighting it from the enemy attempting to explode the casks, still the fire could not be contained as it took over the ships. Surrounding her, the bay is all seven hells alight with wildfire, but the blaze only serves to summon all the power of the Lord of Light channeled through his servant, the Lady Melisandre of Asshai.

Ser Davos can only watch with horror as his burning son is revived to continue on to King’s Landing possessed by fire, joining league with the sea of servants towards the shore. “You must stop this madness,” he turns to Stannis, who is watching stoically, as though his whole army is not becoming the undead. Silence between the two stretches as Ser Davos fights the urge to shake the man he admires most, for whom he’d even burn. “Not this road, your grace, not this sorcery for the Iron Throne.”

“Ready yourself for the landing, Ser Davos,” is all the king speaks.

The green glow of the wildfire turns red under her enchantment filling the whole sky as though the Lord of Light incarnate. The ships fail but the burned men, resurrected by the summoning of their god, soldier on toward their shared mission – to bathe King’s Landing in the pure fire of R’Hllor.

 

* * *

 

Stunned at her encounter with the Hound, Sansa lies still on her bed as she hears the rip of his cloak. When his hand reaches her door to leave, a scream is heard not far off and the scrape of swords. “Fucking hells,” he swears, beginning to pace.

“What is it?” she sits up, her survival at the forefront of her mind, though she takes the time to survey the filth and blood now staining her garment, the evidence of his closeness moments ago. _  
_

The Hound says, grating to her ears, “Stannis has reached the Keep or rather his burned men, the unnatural whoresons. Fuck!” Her mind is reeling to conjure some plan, some way to keep this one man she knows, better with him than alone to face Stannis and his army.

“Stannis won’t kill me, if you stay here with me, you may survive,” she says.

“Like bloody hells I’ll survive,” he eyes her to the side with disdain. “I’d sooner die by the sword countless times than by his holy fire,” he adds with a sneer.

Desperate for him not to leave her to face an uncertain fate alone, Sansa says with urgency, “Swear your sword to me.”

The brash laughter of the Hound echoes in her chamber, even over the mounting clatter outside. She looks out at the red sky lit up by some sorcery of Stannis Baratheon and his infamous Red Woman. Her hopelessness had only been greater the day they took her father’s head from his shoulders. What would her lord father want of her now? How would she get through this?

He reaches for the flagon on the table, finding it empty and throwing it to clang loudly on the floor. A moment later heavy footsteps are heard to near. Stupid drunkard.Somehow she finds some will within herself, a strength not unlike that she associates with her father. With his spirit speaking through her, she raises up to stand and directs him, “Sandor Clegane, you will kneel and swear your sword to me.”

He weakly laughs, looking at her with a strangely wary countenance. “Over my dead body will I make a vow.”

“Did you not promise to keep me safe?” She challenges, her tongue at its sharpest to win this battle. A hard rap against her door parlays the poignancy of his decision.

“Fuck me, I’m dead anyways,” he says, bitter, but she can see him relent, survival taking over in what conscious thought he still has after the barrel of wine he must have consumed.

Sansa approaches him with her head held high and expectant. His harsh laughter returns, seemingly amused at her but sobering quickly by the jostling door. In one fluid movement, the Hound unsheathes his great sword, dropping to his knee and holding his sword out to her. Sansa is overwhelmed at the honor she feels despite the circumstances and her ability to trust this man despite the knife held at her throat mere minutes ago. She did feel his tears, too.

Clegane can barely start to mutter the words when the door crashes open, and a number of rough men with burned skin and wild eyes enter her chamber. Keeping her composure no matter how thin, Sansa takes their momentary pause at the scene before them to command, “I am Lady Sansa of House Stark, prisoner of House Lannister, and I demand an audience with King Stannis, accompanied by my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.”

“The Hound,” one of the more possessed yells, flailing toward them only to have Sandor Clegane pivot from his still kneeling position and pierce the man with his sword. He twists his sword in his gut. The man's sword falls with a clamor as his body sinks to the floor of her chamber. Sansa can feel her heart beat in double the time at the scene, her eyes unblinking as she feels a tremor inhabit her limbs. Sandor catches her eye as he stands. The intensity there should chill her as though the Stranger were staring back, but she feels his strength become her own and cloak her with protection. 

“No one touches my lady,” he says, biting and loud to the burned. “Take us to your king.” Sansa is stunned for Clegane to have taken his duty with such vehemence and says a silent prayer in thanks to the gods, old and new.

The leading soldier demands, “Surrender your sword and dagger to come with us.” Sandor begrudgingly submits but not without a menacing glare to every eye.

Leaving the chamber is the hardest step, to follow after these possessed through the overtaken keep, uncertain of its dangers, to the throne room. Clegane, for she will no longer consider him the Hound now that he is her sworn shield, follows close behind her, his hand where his sword should be and his other close to her guiding the way. Even without his blades, she knows the power of this man, the skill, too, and takes courage in knowing she’s never defenseless with him at her back.

As they near an opening in the passageway, Sandor warns in a whisper to her ear, “Don’t look to the left, little bird,” but she hears the screams and involuntarily glances to see a woman on fire. Her shield’s mailed paw is there covering her eyes before she can blink, though she can tell his hand trembles from the encounter also. She wishes she could retreat completely into him in this moment as if he were her lord father there to comfort and shield her. If only he could completely shut out the sound and stench as the horror of the scene fills the passageway completely, and he tries to hurry her along. It’s one thing to hear about the fire god Stannis worships and another to hear the screams of a burning soul and see the soldiers covered in bright red, blistered, and bleeding skin still functioning as though the Stranger himself has been conquered in the battle tonight.

Reaching the throne room, Sansa notes a mass of burned soldiers, some even missing limbs but still guarding the crowded line stretching to the front, the back of which she is ushered to with Clegane. Many nobles from the court appear distressed in the line, and she can barely make out Stannis on the Iron Throne for the air is filled with smoke emanating from burning basins raised aloft throughout the hall. Desperation is palpable, even rising within her, and as thick a cloud as the fog of smoke hanging over those awaiting their fate. A wail pierces the vast space, sounding from before the throne, and her eyes snap to survey the scene as a court nobleman falls to the floor. He’s dragged away, off to where she knows the course to the dungeons lies.

Sansa looks up to Clegane beside her, and he gives her a reassuring nod, saying, “He’d no sooner throw a daughter of a Stark in a dungeon than the Lannisters.” Taking his words to heart, her nerves calm a moment before thinking of her shield. Filled with worry, she looks back up at his profile, seeing his unscarred side.

Noticing her study, he glares down at her, “What now?”

“What will happen to you?” she trembles, fear taking her. She can’t lose him.

He shakes his head, not reassuring her a bit as he says, “I’m a dead man. By fire.” She’s rendered speechless at his dire words, her fear spoken aloud. Her heart hurts with what it means for him, though she tries to keep her tears in, knowing the importance of appearances here most of all. Still, he wouldn’t be here in this line to his own death if it weren’t for her, and she hangs her head at that.

As they near the front, he places a mailed hand on her shoulder and stoops to tell her, “Measure your words. Speak no lies.” She takes a deep breath, nodding to him and repeating his words in her head. She remains steady despite the cries of the family before them being dragged toward the dungeon in tears. Joffrey would have wanted them killed here to watch them bleed out or have devised some torture, and yet not one has been killed yet since she’s been here, mostly taken in direction of the cells.

Her time, Sansa channels the grace of her lady mother and the austerity of her lord father as she approaches the Iron Throne with Clegane behind her. She kneels though Sandor remains stoic, watching.

“Your name and house,” the King says without inflection.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark and her sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, your grace,” she responds, her gaze remaining lowered in respect.

In a tone only slightly tense compared to his monotone, Stannis sharply addresses his captains, “The Stark girl was to be brought here immediately.” Not waiting for answer, the new king immediately moves to ask, “Is it her?” of the servant brought forward to identify her.

“That’s her, the Lady Sansa, your grace, and the Hound,” the maid says.

“Clegane must be taken to the black cells immediately,” Stannis says his next order without warning, throwing Sansa into a frenzy. She looks back at Clegane, already surrounded by burned men, him glaring at her to be silent. She can’t though as tears fall and she falls to the ground as she begged for her lord father’s life, let her keep this one man. “I beseech your grace to let this man remain as my protector.” She’s shaking and afraid to raise herself from this humble, concealed position and face their fate.

With courage, she rises to see a rather confused look on the king’s previously dour face, but most striking is the what must be the Red Woman at his ear, seemingly appearing out of thin air for she would have noted her presence. When the lady looks at her, Sansa is shocked at her red eyes and how they seem to peer directly into her heart and mind with an intensity that stops her breath. Recovering, as the woman returns to speak only to Stannis, Sansa observes the red woman’s neck appears bandaged and she moves and speaks with a frailty that seems out of place, even needing assistance to retreat from the throne.

“Is this true, Clegane?” The King addresses her shield, pulling Sansa back from her fascination with the sorceress.

“Aye, I never took a vow, never to the Lannisters, but I have sworn to Lady Sansa I’d keep her safe.” One could have heard a needle drop in the throne room at Clegane’s statement, so perplexing it was for many there. Looking up at the king, a true smile graces Sansa's face, and despite the seriousness of the situation, she has hope.

Stannis dryly relates his course, “Lady Sansa will not be needing your protection while she is under mine at the keep. We will consider your position at a later time. Escort Clegane to the black cells. And Ser Davos, see that Lady Sansa is taken to her chambers and post a guard.”

At the order of Clegane's imminent imprisonment, Sansa couldn’t breathe and coughed on the air she eventually gasped. Turning, his eyes are trained on her but only for a moment as he turns from her to continue in the direction of the dungeons. How can this be happening? Now she is alone with these strange persons! She barely registers the coarse man who must be Ser Davos until he speaks with his arm held out for her, “Lady Sansa, please follow me.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor POV: Separate Prisons

 

**Sansa**

Stains of blood and smoke decorate the walls of Maegor's Holdfast as they wind back the route to her chambers, though at least the chaos of before has dissipated. Ser Davos can likely feel the tremble running through her still as she lightly holds his arm he offered. She feels on edge at this turn in events and her change in captors. No one she knows at court remains, and even her shield is now taken from her. She wanted someone she knew amid the possessed and the unknown, and she feels the lack of Clegane acutely, exposed to the will of her new superiors. She will not rest until he is released back into her service.

Two men follow Ser Davos and her at a comfortable distance, likely her new guardsmen, who will be keeping her in and hopefully everyone out. She notes that they are not burned men but sound, though battle-worn in appearance. She appears like no lady herself at the moment, she reminds herself. The burned men though unsettled her greatly. They lived still despite their grievous state and seemed not in control of their own will but with a wild fire in their eyes as though possessed. Even Clegane seemed on edge about them, calling them unnatural she remembers. The state of these men seems too unreal, how did this happen? What god is this? She dares to ask Ser Davos, “There are other soldiers who are different, changed?” It would help to understand something of what has occurred before she is locked away again.

“Aye, my lady, the work of the Lady Melisandre and her fire god. There was wildfire set on us in the bay,” he tells her.

“Oh, Thank you, ser,” she says, polite. She is perhaps more perplexed but at least he elucidated some details. She feels too vulnerable to ask much more. Questions cloud her mind, What will be her place now? How will she be treated? She feels herself shake more profoundly, catching the attention of Ser Davos.

“It has been a strange occurrence, my lady,” Davos confides. “Do not fear. These with us are men under my command that will be your guards, if you need anything tell them, and it will be brought to my attention. Stannis, to my knowledge, will treat with you in all respect of your house and its long history with House Baratheon.” His words do reassure her, despite walking back through where the woman had burned. Sansa refrained from viewing the macabre scene, taking heart to remember her shield’s prevention when she was last in this opening in the hall. Still the stench is horrific. All she responds to Ser Davos with is a nod, hoping Robb does not intend to fight this king, too.

A group of burned men cross their path, making Sansa hold her breath with nerves, avoiding their eyes. Still the soldiers march as one, carrying remains on a board held on their shoulders, making her shiver. _So much death._

Her chambers are reached within reason, and she remembers the man Clegane slain. “Ser Davos, there is a...a body?”

"A body?" He narrows his gaze at her in confusion.

"A man, dead, within," she says, looking down.

At this moment, a burned man comes sprinting toward them, speaking, though barely able to make out the harsh rasp that has taken his voice, "King Stannis beckons, you are needed in the small council. Army at the gates." 

“Lady Sansa, I must be away. This is Lewys, he will be your guard. Lewys, take care of the body. The battle continues, bar your door, and stay away from the windows.” Sansa’s eyes go wide at the news as new worries spring within her. When will this night end?

Ser Davos is already rushing off, taking the other guard that was to remain with her, and Lewys is there to open the door into her waiting cell. He enters and drags out the body with difficulty. She looks away feeling sick at the entrails escaping his cavity and is unnerved to see the blood coating the floor where the burned man had lain.

"At least there's not more blood," Lewys notes, then curses, "Fucking fire god and his servants." She narrows her eyes at him, surprised at his curse, but also finds it strange that there is not more blood. Then she feels sad to know what death looks like so well now due to Joffrey's spectacles.  

She regrets Ser Davos's sudden departure. She was going to ask after the fate of Sandor Clegane, for surely they will not burn him. She must foster a plan for his release. Once she has her chamber to herself, she bars the door and feels some relief to be alone, her back to the door. The flicker of a still burning candle absorbs her attention, outwardly steadying her gaze as thoughts of what lies ahead continue to swirl in her head. Will Robb come for her and bend the knee? Where are they and will her lady mother come, too? Will she ever see Clegane again? Will whoever is outside the gate take over and kill her or will she be back in the hands of the Lannisters?

A noise from outside draws her attention to the still red sky and stirs her from the devolving thoughts. After testing the bar on her door, she turns her attention to the dress. Contorting to pull at the strings, she finds the sweat from the hot night serves to eventually squeeze her out of it. Good riddance. Then, she spots the soiled kingsguard cloak on her floor. Clegane left it, she realizes. She picks up part of it, holding up sections to inspect it, wrapping it around herself in her shift. Much too warm for this night, no wonder he rid himself of it. Still, she folds it up neatly and decides to clear a space in the bottom of her chest. No one need know he came here or why. She barely understands herself. It had been so traumatic, his knife at her throat demanding a song. Sansa pushes that unpleasant memory away, instead thinking on the watery tears that were mixed with the blood on his face. He was so near, the wine and blood was overwhelming her nostrils, did he kiss her? He took protecting her seriously, she remembers, even if he was taken from her shortly thereafter. She will never forget his actions, truer than any knight she has known.

Knowing sleep will not come to her, she sits with some embroidery to do, thinking she could make something for her mother and brother when they come or even her shield. The work protects her from the hopelessness that is fit to consume her mind and spread all over her being, leaving her as empty as those hollow, burned men shuffling around the keep.

Hours go by and the dawn appears to finally break. The sounds from outside are no less terrible for their distance. Sounds like the battle could be as close as the Mud Gate but not the Red Keep itself. She finds herself singing quietly the mother’s hymn, though it brings her little solace.

 

* * *

 

**Sandor**

Never had Sandor thought the black cells were this crowded before. Dozens of men shared his cell, all from court. These nobles were being corralled like sheep for the slaughter. He hears the sound of armored footsteps in the distance, his interest piqued, he stands, waiting.

Still hearing the sniffling of that piece of shit, Lancel Lannister, who no doubt shit his small clothes descending into this unforgivable place. The whore of the queen loses its prestige in the dungeon. Between the siege before Stannis’s arrival and sheer quantity of prisoners, some will starve before they ever get the chance to burn. Many give him his space, not wanting to risk the wrath of the Hound, though he’d enjoy ending one of these fuckers just to ease the frustration. Still he knows he’d sooner die from his own hand or lack of food before fire ever touched his skin, and the thought keeps him on edge.

He should’ve been out of here on Stranger’s back not dealing with the consequences of passing out in the little bird’s chambers. Gods, he nearly fucked her bloody right there, even after all that wine, her singing the fucking mother’s hymn like a little girl. It stopped him though, stopped him from taking her. He shakes his head at the unwanted images. Still, then she made him swear his sword to her, the wine must’ve been stronger than he thought to have agreed to that. There he was on one knee before her, the dog swearing to his new owner. He should’ve rushed out and died by the sword in a pool of his own blood. Now he will die as in his nightmares, by fire, and all for the little bird. She thought she needed him, she’s the safest fucking one in all the lot of ‘em here at court. What a little fool, too, blubbering to save him and keep him as her dog.

He wipes his brow from the heat of this red night. Hells, he probably drank a whole vineyard of Dornish red, and he sighs knowing the wine leaving his system for long will be rough. He’s already had to piss on one shit as it is, he thinks to himself in amusement, though that’s not the rough part. Doubt he’ll have wine for awhile. The little bird will forget all about him soon enough when she’s set up nicely with her new captors in her new gold cage and her kingly brother comes to bend the knee and carry her home. No, they’d sooner marry her to some lordling here likely than let her leave. She should've left with him when she had the chance. As long as they don’t burn her, he considers, letting the subject rest.

A light glints in the dark, and heavy footsteps echo louder in the passageway leading to his shared cell. He can see the other faces across the hall, women, peeled at the incoming visitors, sticking out of the bars above and below. They look like the likes of flea bottom except their dirty robes are made of colored silks. Stannis has no need for the lot of ‘em, and Sandor couldn’t agree more with purging the liars and cheats. The more noble, the worse.

Making a racket as their armor clangs with each step, several burned bastards lead with torches to where they’re kept, and there she steps, one knight holding her up, the Red Woman. Unnatural she is _,_ red eyes and all,Sandor grinds his teeth _._ Still weak as in the throne room, he’s surprised to see her here, willing to venture down with the damned. It’s an unsettling place, the black cells, even for the likes of him. At least the little bird can keep her perch in the keep, she wouldn’t last the night in a place like this. A small voice corrects his thought though, she would live, but she wouldn’t be the same. Her cage may be gold, but it's still a cage for her, he's seen it too well.

The escort stops in front of his shared cell, the clang of keys against metal indicating the iron door to be soon opened. Having two of the men unsheathe their swords, the witch herself kisses the blades with her touch, lighting them with fire. As they enter, the flaming swords swing in the crowded cell to disperse the number into the corners. He was already in the back, watching and waiting. The heat is killing him, but in the light he can see other Westermen as if there’s some order to how they’re being kept. There’s a Lydden, a Swyft, a Stackspear, and many others not so high.

Two burned others entered behind those wielding swords to grab hold of the blond-haired Lancel, dragging him in front of their witch. He watches her throughout, and she never falters in her façade. There’s a darkness about her that worries him as his fate and likely that of the Stark girl’s are in her hands. These burned men are truly only subject to her and whatever the fuck a fire god is, even he can see that much.

She approaches the slack young Lannister, lifting his face to peer in his eyes and study his visage. Then she pulls out a dagger with a sharp point to carve a line in his cheek, making the boy wince and cry out.

He can barely make out her rasp, "Weak blood. He will do for now as dawn is breaking. The others will be taken to the great temple.” She glances around at her followers before catching his eyes for a split-second almost in warning, while uttering, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.” The burned take up her strange chant as one.

Breaking the moment, he yells out above the droning burned, edging toward the front of the group, “Burning us one at a time, witch?” The two with swords aflame aggressively react, making him stumble back from the hiss of flame and steel so close, he falls on his arse in the filth. Out of the fire, still red in his vision, the red woman materializes, standing over him with her glowing red eyes.

He hears her soft rasp, barely, as if only for him, “Sandor Clegane, once sword of Lannisters, now sworn to the Lady Sansa, betrothed of the bastard king Joffrey.” She pauses, weighing him almost. “You are once touched by fire and cleansed by it. The Lord of Light honors you."

Cleansed!? Honors!? “Fuck you, you red whore!” he yells, raising from the floor, uncaring of his fate. He’d rather one of these fuckers run him through than suffer her flames. One is within a hair’s width of just that, singing his garment, when she says, “Wait,” and turns leaving the cell. All flicker of flame fades back to darkness as he sulks over his continued existence and fate made inevitable. Cleansed, his arse, more like ruined, more like tortured at the hands of his brother to no end. Fuck, the burn still hurts in places, an open wound that never heals completely, always pulling him back, his greatest weakness. Sandor fumes, pacing until dropping back into a corner, edging out another bastard from his spot.

The solemnity broken by the excitement of the witch’s appearance descends again, magnifying every sound in the darkness. One thing he can agree on is the night is dark and full of terrors. And here, in the black cells, it is perpetual night.

Lancel was taken, must be burning all those blond-haired Lannisters first or this crowd. He almost hates to miss the look of imminent death on Joffrey’s face and hear his screams. No doubt he’ll burn, even if weak of blood, the bastard. It appears to be important to her, the blood of her victims. His is strong but least noble, not of a king’s by a long-shot. Maybe this is one occurrence in his favor if he’s a waste to burn. The little bird might plead for him a quick death. He shakes his head at his useless thoughts. There he sits, in the dirt and filth and darkness of the black cells, awaiting his own dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: The Burnings

She hears the heavy footsteps through the stillness of the dawn, and the gruff voices carry as Lewys places a knock on her door. “Lady Sansa?” he beckons her in a clear tone.

“Is there a maidservant? I must dress, ser,” she says. Why did she have to rid herself of the other?

“Find suitable dress, you are to accompany Lady Melisandre to the temple without delay, my lady,” Lewys tells her.

The temple?She wonders, rummaging through her silks. She slips into a new shift though having to contort and finds a dress she may be able to wrap around her.

“Lady Sansa,” he raps again.

“A moment, ser,” she pleads, exasperated at all the ties. She wraps it the best she can, securing it with a belt, and quickly braids her hair. Her shift is poking out the top, but better than what must stay hidden. Undoing the bar, Lewys is already there opening the door, ready to usher her out.

“Prepared to ride?” He eyes her footwear.

“Pardon, ser?” She doesn’t understand.

“To ride a horse,” he says, acting as if it should be obvious.

“Oh,” she retires again, lacing her boots away from her open door. The impropriety of the knight irks her.

“You don’t have to address me as ser, Lady Sansa. I am no knight, they call me the fishwife.” _What a peculiar name_.

Finished, she wraps a cloak around her despite the warmth of the day, wishing she could hide, and turns to ask, “Where are we going?”

“The Sept of Baelor, my lady. Already fashioned the temple to the blasted red god. Thank the true gods I wasn’t turned in the battle. Evil it is, this witchcraft.” The burned men had left, and they are alone but still, his strong views unsettle her, to dare such controversy here in the Red Keep would be unthinkable to her. Evidently, there was more to what Ser Davos explained as far as the Red Woman’s role in the battle.

“Turned?” she inquires, as he begins to escort her to the stables.

“Aye, her fire god brought ‘em back, but they sure aren’t living. One in the ship next to me burned half up by wildfire but still swam to shore and is in the battle now. Every word is Lord of Light this or the night is dark and full of terrors.” He spits to the side. How coarse, she draws back. At least Clegane never spit in her presence that she can recall. Still, she’s shocked at such strong dissent within the new King’s ranks as far as religion. She had just assumed everyone under Stannis would be faithful to his god, however unusual that would be for houses of Westeros.

Her silence seems to draw the soldier’s attention to her, so she chooses the middle ground of ignorance, “I haven’t seen much of this red god, ser.” Hopefully, she can find a way to placate her guardsman somewhat, could work out in her favor in the long run.

“You will soon see enough, my lady,” he sighs, resigned. “There’s no stopping her now.”

“Who stands at the walls, ser?” she tremulously ventures for information.

“More Lannisters, does it matter?” He eyes her, a crooked smile to his features. Knowing she should be more the naive girl they think she is, Sansa schools her features. She suppresses how much she wants to yell, of course it matters, it’s my fate at stake. Silence is safer now, and she continues to follow Lewys through the keep, hoping to make it before his loose tongue gets the attention of a burned man and his sword. Not many souls pass them in the keep, and she wonders about the servants, unnerved at how little she can care for herself. Soon hunger will set in for breakfast but that may never come.

Ser Lewys secures a horse for her, helping her up, and then leads Sansa over behind the Lady Melisandre, who gives her a welcoming nod. Most of the soldiers are on foot as they did not bring many horses and few remained from those fleeing the battle. Looking over those gathered, it’s then she sees them, all tied together, bound and gagged, Cersei, Joffrey, and even young Tommen! Still in their fine clothes, though unkempt, each looks subdued as though the night has been long. She had wondered what became of them, but why are they here now? There’s no Stannis, the king must be with the army defending the city as Ser Davos was taken. Is there going to be a trial at the temple?

“Melisandre motions to start the procession, and many burned men lead the way with the Lannisters in tow, pulling them along. As they circle around to head down the hill toward the sept, she gasps to see a still burning figure, whoever it was not long dead, there in front of the Great Hall. Even Ser Lewys seems to start though able to hold her horse steady with its lead. Her hand covering her racing heart, Sansa’s eyes peer at the figure and can just make out what still exists of the person’s blond hair as the flames continue to consume them. A shiver runs through her at the horror, perhaps another Lannister?

She turns forward, trying to block the encounter out, only to see Cersei struggling with the guards, her muffled screams barely heard at this distance. She’s trying to untie her sons. The pieces fall into place, and Sansa gasps realizing what this means for them. The Red Woman means to execute them today and by fire. And she will have to watch, Sansa shudders. Even in all her hate of Joffrey and Cersei did she ever contemplate burning them alive.

One of the guards appears to make Cersei go limp, leaving them no choice but to carry her along as each son sheds tears in this desperate moment. Joffrey looks back toward the burning figure, looking bleak, and his eyes turn to scan those following till they land on her. As his eyes lock on hers, she cannot look away as she feels the anger grow in his eyes at their different stations. He shakes his head as if hoping to rid himself of his gag for she knows he would love to yell at her in this moment. She can see it in his eyes, should’ve burned you when I could, Stark bitch, making her shudder again, feeling pallid. Joffrey is then kicked to keep moving, to which he spits on the guard, earning him a series of sever blows.

Sansa wishes Clegane were here, not feeling safe to hazard going into the city without him, knowing those here care nothing for her livelihood. The gates open and Lewys tugs her horse along to descend the hill. Her heart starts to panic, a pain in her chest as she’s through the gate, looking over the city. The last time she was in the city there were riots, and she dearly hopes they have safe passage this day. She holds on tightly to her saddle despite the weakness she feels. If only she’d had breakfast.

From this height, she can make out the fighting around the King’s Gate she believes. A large army it is and she can make out Lannister red, so it must be Lord Tywin’s army, she guesses. And the Red Woman is going to burn his family. It appears like the army is spreading out to block the other gates. She looks down to see Lewys similarly scanning the walls, too. 

Sansa was perplexed at the array of tools being brought in carts behind them to the sept, but it makes sense when they arrive as soldiers are being equipped and sent into the sept and others are laying the wood pyres. Sansa assumes this is Lady Melisandre’s first visit here considering all the work to be started. It is the dawn of King Stannis’s victory over the city after all. She’s intrigued this action is to be undertaken so soon.

“Won’t be a nice morning, my lady,” Lewys expresses to her as he helps her from the horse. “Nothing like the screams of the burning.” She nods to him, somber for what is to come, despite the satisfactory fate of those who wronged her. Except Tommen. He must be left out of this, surely. Her eyes go large with the answer as three stakes are raised over the pyres. Still, Sansa knows better than to question or interfere. No one survives trying to do the right thing.

Yet she would risk the King’s ire for Clegane, she contemplates. For some reason, she thinks he wouldn’t stand by as she burned, just as he wouldn’t let her be ruined in the riots. They may both have their own pyres one day she shakes her head at her hopeless thoughts. She will do everything in her power for him not to burn, she at least owes him that. Tommen is beyond her influence without a doubt, but why must she be here? The Red Woman must want her to see this.

Her thoughts are interrupted by her approach, “Lady Sansa, is it?” The red lady lightly curtseys with a nod and outstretched hand.

“Yes, my lady,” she responds in kind, taking the woman’s hand that is particularly warm to the touch.

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Melisandre, I come from Asshai, Lady Sansa, where I have long served the Lord of Light, the one true god, until a vision brought me to his grace, King Stannis.” Her hand is sure in Sansa’s making her doubly aware of her own tremble she can’t seem to contain. “Stay close,” the lady instructs in her melodic yet definitive tone.

Parting from her, Lady Melisandre addresses those gathered, “The Lord of Light honors us with this victory over King’s Landing. We return his honor with our service. The Sept of Baelor stands here no longer, before you is the Great Temple to R’Hllor, the one true god.” A shout in triumph is raised up by those burned and faithful present. “His fires will burn through the night to the new dawn.” As if on cue, they hear the rumble of stone collapsing in the sept. Not the statues of the Seven!

Lady Melisandre nods to the guards holding the Lannisters to attach them to their posts. She can’t bear to see Tommen’s fate, he is just a boy, she wants to yell out, but it would only put the target on her back next. Cersei is frantic to speak, and Lady Melisandre allows the gags to be removed, not inhibiting Joffrey from yelling and cursing how much he wants to kill everyone.

“I demand a trial by combat,” Cersei screams like it’s her last breath. There’s murmuring in the crowd, and Sansa, too, thinks it’s only fair she have a trial of some sort. Watching Melisandre though, she doesn’t appear caught unaware, if anything she’s smooth as silk, her confidence untainted.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand,” Melisandre patiently says, “You are needed in the war being waged. The city must be cleansed. Only the pure fire of R’Hllor can do this.”

“You mean my death!” Cersei shrieks at her.

Ignoring her, Melisandre addresses those gathered again. “Lord of Light, we offer these three of noble blood, cleanse with your fire that it may lead our way. Honor us with victory against the darkness and protect us for the night is dark and full of terrors.” Her burned men repeat her last words as she takes a torch and starts the fire at each pyre. Sansa wishes she had someone strong to hold onto, but it’s still just her in the ever-changing landscape of King’s Landing.

The Lady Melisandre takes her place near Sansa to watch, and it makes Sansa nervous to have her so close, almost intimidating. She didn’t anticipate how much smoke there would be, billowing around each form as the flames catch. Cersei continues to yell, Joffrey to cry out, but Sansa can’t keep her eyes from Tommen’s silent frame. It shouldn’t be like this, Tommen doesn’t deserve this.

Lady Melisandre must follow her line of eyesight as she turns to her, speaking softly, “Fire is a pure death, Lady Sansa, do not fear for him.” She can barely contain the glare in her eyes at this. She wants to say, then why don’t you burn if it’s so wonderful, but the first screams shake her, rendering her only able to nod to Melisandre. She wants to shut out the sounds of horror, like those she heard before.

Her eyes snap back to see Joffrey howling in his restraints, the flames creeping up his trousers. She has no sympathy for him, but it still makes her clutch her arms to her chest to see someone burning. The flames are starting on Cersei’s dress, and she finds the power to look away from Tommen, knowing she couldn’t bear to see him lit aflame. Her eyes shut, the odor gets to her, the smoke that filled her nostrils makes room for the stench of burning flesh, a smell like no other in its awfulness. The screams pierce through her darkness, making her heart thump, but that smell is what make her guts wrench. She was already feeling weak on her horse, but combined with this horrifying spectacle, she fears she’ll retch here on the stone steps. The sharp shriek of what must be Tommen breaks her, and she turns to find Lewys behind her. His eyes read her pitiful state, but she still mouths, “I don’t feel well,” and the next moment she’s falling towards him, everything going dark.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos and Sansa POVs

**Davos POV**

"Comfortable here, princess?" Davos asks Shireen after he made his way up the tall tower to check on her. Another place to hide her away, he shakes his head, knowing he's about to descend for a dinner celebrating the arrival of the queen and princess without either in attendance. He was able to smuggle them in from Dragonstone along with some of the queen's men and supplies before the royal fleet still loyal to the Lannisters blockades the bay. 

"It's another tower," is all she answers, looking out her window at the fires and fighting. Selyse was in a highly anxious state the whole time and asked for the red priestess as soon as she arrived. Holed up in her new chambers in the holdfast, she can't bear to descend down to the Queen's Ballroom for her feast. And dear Shireen is still kept away - Stannis wouldn't hear of the princess attending. 

"Tomorrow you can show me around the library if you like," he tells her, and she smiles at the prospect of new books. 

"Of course, you think Father will let me visit the city?" She asks.

"Maybe one day when the seige is over," he tells her, but the city itself is no safe place, particularly with the burnings Lady Melisandre has continued. He was at a loss when he learned she had burned to death all the Lannisters, the day after the victory over the city. Stannis had seemed fine with the decision, but he has doubts it was the king's. She had continued, burning a Westerman that night and a lady the next day, for which she claims early victories in the siege. 

"True, I can see much of it from here at least," Shireen answers, resigned.

"There's another lady here of high birth, Sansa Stark, that’s a guest of the king. She’s older than you. Would you like to meet her, princess?"

"Very much," the princess lights up at the idea, making him feel lighter himself. 

"How is your son, Ser Davos?" Princess Shireen asks him unaware. Matthos was not dead but was no longer himself, a disciple for Melisandre more truly than when he was merely a believer, and it pained him greatly.

"He's one of the burned, princess," he tightens his mouth, looking down.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Shireen relates with true empathy.  

"Yes, well, I better head down. Send for me if you have need of anything, princess, and I will arrive for you tomorrow for the library." The princess smiles as he heads out of her quarters, not much different from Dragonstone. 

Entering the room for the feast, Davos bows his head to his king, addressing him, "your grace," before taking his seat. 

"You were occupied," Stannis states though it is also a question.

"Seeing the princess is well. She wishes to visit the library on the morrow. If you would grant this wish, I will accompany her."

"I have need of you at the walls, but you may in the early morning," Stannis allows.

"Yes, your grace. I intend to introduce Lady Sansa to her. I believe it would be good for the princess to have a companion, especially a refined lady like Lady Sansa." He reasons and sees Stannis turn his notice to the well-bred girl sitting several seats down from Davos. She has the southern court attire and manners that would be good for Shireen to know, perhaps even help her out of her cage.

Melisandre had been quiet for their exchange, but he can feel her red eyes on him, bright as ever and her ruby glowing with a power he fears is only growing from her display on the Blackwater. She sits in the queen's seat, the Lord Florent, an adherent of the Lord of Light beside her. "I do not believe it is wise, your grace, to associate the Lady Sansa with your daughter who refuses to acknowledge the one true god," Melisandre draws the attention of the king. She continues, "The lady should be encouraged to accept the faith of R'Hllor, it would ease greatly acceptance by members of her family." How could he not have seen this? He glances toward Sansa, eating methodically the feast he made possible, but the girl does not appear to know she is being discussed.

"True," Stannis agrees with Melisandre. "There is hope in the princess still." He hates how she's pressured Stannis that all should accept her religion, soon he'll have to officially convert.

"Yes, perhaps I can show her to light the fires here at keep's temple to burn in the darkness for dawn." Melisandre suggests.

Stannis nods. "You may introduce them as you said, Davos, and Melisandre you will teach both to light the fires for dawn here at the keep. Let them know I expect them both to participate every night,” Stannis says decisively.

"Yes, my king," Melisandre is pleased. "I have appointed a new priestess for the temple here as my primary duties are at the Great Temple, where we will need more priests and servants."

"Do what needs to be done," Stannis says, lifting his . 

Melisandre initiates further conversation, "There is also the question of the lady's betrothal to consider, your grace."

"Betrothal? The bastard king is no more." Stannis is not following, but Davos takes a deep breath, Melisandre can scheme with the best, and Stannis doesn't even see it.

"If I may clarify, your grace, a betrothal to one among the queen's men would go far to encourage her acceptance of the faith and bridge an alliance with the Stark's. She is flowered." Melisandre reveals her plot.

"Who would you suggest?" Stannis appears to readily agree.

"I have taken the liberty, your grace, to discuss the prospect with Lord Florent of his son, Alekyne." Of course, she wants her to marry a follower of the red god. Poor girl probably just wants to return to her family, Davos sighs, earning a glare from the priestess. 

Finished with their meal, he starts to retire with Stannis, Melisandre, Lord Florent, and other ranking members of Stannis's army, but first approaches Lady Sansa who is also choosing the moment to retire. He muddles through a polite invitation, "Lady Sansa, would you do me the honor of meeting with the Princess Shireen and I in the library early tomorrow?" 

She replies, placid, and never looking him truly in the eye, "Yes, Ser Davos," with an impeccable curtsy, "the honor is mine." The formality she conjures is a wall of perfection she has mastered unlike his attempts only on behalf of his exalted position. He wonders not for the first what her life under the Lannister's consisted of. He informs Lewys of the time to escort her and heads off to the king's solar.

He's trying to think of a way to handle the surplus of prisoners as they cannot all be fed when it hits him, the Wall. That can reduce the number of burnings she seems bent on as well. In the king's solar, he suggests, "My grace, the dungeons are full of all those previous occupants of the court, lords and ladies, knights and men-at-arms alike. Of those men able, would you consider sending them to the Wall?" Stannis seems to think it over, and Melisandre narrows her eyes at him as if drawing out his darkest secrets, making him try to avoid her gaze.

Lord Florent argues, "All those are offerings to the Lord of Light to cleanse the city with holy fire." No doubt a paraphrase of his true queen, Melisandre. 

"How many are there?" Stannis asks. Melisandre answers for him, "There are now around one hundred or more persons. Indeed, I see wisdom in sending those able men of low birth to the Wall. This siege will not hold, and I've seen my fires, death will march on the Wall." All eyes turn to her at such a dire declaration.

"Well, they could use all the help they can get, your grace," Davos says with a sip of his wine. Melisandre smiles like a cat, amused, with a glance at him. 

"It is settled then," Stannis concludes, and Davos must admit that was easier than he anticipated, a rare moment for her to agree with him. 

Stannis addresses them, "There is the matter of this Stark boy who fashions himself King in the North and who's sister we have. _I knew Ned Stark. He was no friend of mine, but only a fool would doubt his honor or his honesty_ , and I expect the same of his blood."

"I believe we will be able treat with them, your grace. The boy will see his father's way," Davos agrees, and Stannis looks to the Red Woman for her judgment.

Melisandre pauses, considering him before speaking, "Davos should seek terms with the Stark and his mother to ally with the one king of the realm, you, my king, and to bend the knee. The betrothal of his sister should be included in these terms." It doesn't surprise him at all that she'd suggest he leave, even though he would for his king. 

Stannis tilts his wine glass as if studying it instead of the complexities of securing his reign over the Seven Kingdoms. He directs, "Have these terms written up for my seal, in particular his resignation from the title of king and to assist in the war against the Lannisters. And Davos, I ask you to take these terms to Riverrun, leaving before the week is out."

"Yes, your grace," Davos bows to him. 

"Has Varys or Baelish been found?" Stannis looks at those around his table.

Lord Florent answers, "No, your grace, it is believed each escaped King's Landing before the battle commenced."

"Would you like these men found and killed, my king?" Melisandre looks hopefully to Stannis.

"As long as they aren't at court, it is not as immediate a concern as Tywin at the gates," Stannis says.

Melsandre nods, making her own plots, and he prays the blood magic will end, and she doesn't birth another "shadow" as she called the demon. As long as that's a part of her religion, he will never set foot in her temples if he can help it.

Stannis sighs, the stress on him fully apparent, and each of them says their farewells and withdraw back to their own chambers for the night. Another day not being burned by Melisandre, Davos smiles to himself as he heads to the Tower of the Hand.

 

**Sansa POV**

Looking out her window at the godswood burning, Sansa feels numb as she gets dressed the next morning in preparation to meet the princess. Thankfully Lewys found her a handmaid, so she has help and was presentable for the feast. She was surprised to learn neither the princess nor the queen attended the feast in their honor, which also went without explanation. To her, at least. She was looking forward to more ladies in this men-dominated castle. She can feel all the eyes on her as it is, not to mention Lewys's over familiarity. At least she'll get to meet the princess with Ser Davos. Something about him puts her at ease.

There is quite a difference from the constant intrigue in the Lannister court, but she still feels scrutinized and measures her every action. She couldn't believe the audacity of the king for them to openly discuss her while she's mere yards away. She was fully aware of the topic, herself, if not the details, and she believes she successfully appeared unaware of their discussion. 

Lewys knocks for her to indicate it's time to leave. Odd Ser Davos chose the library, such a stuffy place that she's only been in once. At the door, Lewys extends his arm, and she takes it, cringing as she feels him appraise her. She'd woken from her fainting spell with him taking off her boots in her chamber. He’d laughed, "I know you can't undress yourself," starting on her dress. She screamed and was begging for a maid when he finally stopped, telling her to be quiet, he's only helping her. She'd cried so hard after he finally left her alone in her room. This is why she wanted Clegane. He'd been untoward with her, but it was different somehow. She wants a new guard, but she also wants to visit her shield and this may be her only way.

Walking along the corridor with Lewys, she forces a smile at him, "Would you be willing to help me tonight?"

"Of course, my lady," he seems more than willing, ready to play the knight.  

"Thank you, I knew I could depend on you, Ser Lewys," she can see him visibly puff up with her empty praise. 

Entering the library, she spots a girl of an age with Arya likely, her poor lost sister. Sansa takes a deep breath to push away thoughts of her own family. The girl is trying to reach a book too high for her, and Davos picks it off the shelf for her. The sentimentality of the scene makes her uncomfortable, and she coughs lightly to get their attention. 

The princess turns around, and Sansa is struck by the sight of her face, half-covered in a horrible, rough scar. Somehow she retains her composure, not letting it faze her more than a moment, as she faces the girl. They're just as bad as her shield's but not a burn.

Ser Davos introduces her, "Princess, this is Lady Sansa."

"It is an honor to meet you, your highness," Sansa curtsies low for the girl who appears taken aback by her manner of address. 

The girl is small and shy before her, but gestures to her face, "It's greyscale, my scars." 

"What a misfortune, princess. My sworn shield is scarred on half his face with burns," she relates. 

"Really?" Shireen utters in surprise. “I should like to meet him.”

Davos ushers them to sit, "It's a feat Shireen survived the disease when she was but a babe. Oh, Lady Sansa, it is likely Clegane will be sent to the Wall." The Wall! Sansa again must maintain her composure at this news when she wants to explode as to why he must be in the black cells in the first place. Davos spoke as though she should be relieved just because he isn't being executed. 

"I would rather he be returned as my guard," she tries to sound smooth.

"He was in the kingsguard, my lady. I do not know the circumstances of how he became your shield, but he will not be made your guard." Davos states matter-of-fact.

"Because I'm a prisoner here, ser," she finishes for him, not being able to remain silent.

"Of course not, you are a guest of the King on the Iron Throne, free to do as you wish within the castle walls, even accompany the Princess Shireen," he makes clear. She attempts to placate the tension with a composed smile, it's the same as her situation under the Lannisters, only more if not to fear being summoned by Joffrey.  

Ser Davos looks at Shireen with a concerned face, "I must go now. You will both be assisting Lady Melisandre with the keep temple's fires this evening. Enjoy the library, princess." She sees the princess sulk at the mention of the Red Woman, but Sansa's only wary. Remembering her, he nods, "and Lady Sansa."

"One moment, ser," Sansa addresses him. "I would like to request a new guard. If you can procure one by tomorrow morning, it would be most appreciated."

"Is there something wrong with Lewys?" He asks of course. 

"He speaks ill of the red priestess, ser," she hopes that is enough reason. 

Ser Davos nods, annoyed she can tell. "It will be done, Lady Sansa." He bows slightly to Shireen, "Princess," and exits.

“Lady Sansa,” Shireen looks concerned at her as they take a seat at the small table. “Your shield, he’s in the dungeons?”

“Yes, princess,” Sansa nods to her, taking a sip of the tea provided.

“Why? If you are not considered an enemy of the crown?” The girl astutely observes.

“Well, I may not be, but my shield is a dangerous man, one of the renowned warriors of Westeros, the Hound.” The princess gasps at this knowledge, no doubt aware of his moniker.

“How did he get his burns?” Shireen is curious.

“It’s a story I know, but only he can tell,” Sansa honestly admits to her.

“I thought he was a knight of the Lannister’s.” Shireen now appears confused.

She half-smiles, “He is not a knight. He never took the vows because he takes vows seriously and most knights do not. Sandor Clegane is not the man most of Westeros knows him as. He could have escaped the battle, but he chose to stay and make sure I was safe, knowing he could die in exchange.” Shireen looks awestruck at her account, and it sounds like a song even to her own ears. Clegane may not be who she thought he was all those months ago, but she’s still not quite sure who he is or even if he knows. He does live and die by honesty, she acknowledges, and for that he’s worth his weight in gold.

After exploring the library with the young princess, the girls shared the mid-day meal together. Shireen wanted to see all of her dresses, so she took her to her room to go through her trunk. Sansa carefully kept Clegane’s cloak hidden as she fanned out the different silks on her bed. Shireen would be amazed at the array of silks Cersei wore, just like she was, Sansa sighs, though books seem to the princess's particular interest. Ending their day with Lady Melisandre, lighting the fires in the temple at dusk put them both in a somber mood, and Sansa retires back to her chambers but not to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indulged in a little Shireen&Sansa friendship time :) 
> 
> Also, the italicized text when Stannis speaks of Ned Stark is a quote from the books.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV + Bonus short Sansa POV

 

**Sandor POV**

Foul is the air entering his lungs in the dank cell he inhabits with this losing lot, life still holding onto him. A few days here yet all seems lost to him, any sense of time or space. He starts to think he'll turn blind and never see light again. That is until the torches come to take from those remaining and provide much needed water. Even if unclean, it's all that's keeping him alive. Lack of any solid food is turning his muscles weak. He can already feel his body drawing on them for sustenance like a dull pain taking his life from him slowly. 

No one moves in the cell, energy would be wasted in any effort, and fear of each other is too heightened. Only he has no fear. The Stranger is welcome to him, but survival is a force beyond his control, an instinct that has served him well but now his misery.

Out of the quiet, the unmistakable patter of footsteps can be heard, descending a distant stair. Two he'd say, not the clear clank of four burned men who are the ones to usher out one of the highborn amongst them for a trial by fire. Grisly work, burning. Not a god at all, something evil as the hearts of men, for even the Stranger has mercy. The glow of a torch reminds him he has sight. One of those nearing walks lightly as though a woman. Likely the Red Woman is here to burn him after all. "Set fire to us all, red witch," he yells out to antagonize her. Might as well get it over with, burn him. He'd fight their restraints till they had no choice but to put a sword through his heart.

A soft voice answers his call, "Clegane? Where are you?"

He rises immediately, recognizing the little bird's tone. His muscles stretch painfully, himself dizzy from the sudden movement, but Sandor makes his way to the barred entrance, pushing any poor sods out of his way.

"Here, here," he says, his voice dry and cracked. The torch light brightens as she comes closer to his cell, making him squint from the close light, but he sees her with her fine dress under a cloak, her red hair he can see edging out of it. Maybe he’s worse off than he thought and is dreaming of her coming to him already. "Little bird," he can't control himself, his hands thrust out of the bars for anything she would offer him. Days in this dark hell will break any man's pride. 

"Oh, Sandor Clegane, what have they done to you?" She says, her voice like a song to his ears, and takes one of his hands in hers, the other retrieving a parcel from under her cloak. The others swarm around him to catch sight of her and what she may bring. 

"I brought some bread and meat from my table," she unwraps her offerings, and he quickly grabs each to consume. This lot would even fight him for a bite. The one next to him starts wailing, "Please, my lady," and the torch shifts to scare back the other prisoner.

"Back," a man says harshly. He sees him then. He'd forgotten she didn't come alone. The man takes his position back by the little bird, too close, and he watches Sansa's face - this guard makes her uncomfortable, then why is he here?

"How are you here? You shouldn't be here," he takes a serious tone, pulling his hands back to rest on the bars. 

"I had to see for myself how my shield is being treated," she avoids his question. "I wanted to tell you, they are considering sending you and other knights to the Wall." Well, that's a better fate, he breathes a sigh of relief. She continues, "I know it's horrible, but they can't move you till after the siege, so we have until then to have you released."

"They will never release me to you, little bird. I need food to stay alive till then," he shakes his head at her naivety.

"I don't know when I'll be able to come again," her eyes lower, making him angry at what trick she's pulled to be here now. She was never good at lies.

"Siege? What's going on out there?" He asks. 

"Lord Tywin's forces," she says. "The godswood was burned, the sept is now a temple to the Lord of Light," she swallows, "I saw Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen tied to stakes and burned."

"Hells, they took Lancel from here." Then it grips him, "Even Tommen." Sandor puts a hand on his brow to shield his mind from contemplating such madness. He was just a boy. "Don't let her tell you what to believe, little bird," he voices, and she looks surprised. He's right then, the red witch’s already started trying to convert Sansa.

"I have to light the fires with the princess every night, mandated by King Stannis. I saw them discussing me at dinner but couldn't make out what," she tells him, looking to him for answers. 

"You're from a great house, Stannis likely wants to ally with your brother, and now you're no longer betrothed. What do you think it could be?" He can see on her face she had come to the same conclusion as an emptiness like resignation enters her eyes. "They won't give you back to your family, little bird. Hells, your king brother would marry you off to some alliance just as well. Likely it'll be some lordling or knight of that red god." She nods, downcast, and he almost wishes he had better news for her. 

"I don't want to be married off without choice," she whispers, but he hears her loud and clear. Dangerous thoughts for a maiden, he thinks as his scowl lifts.

"If it were up to me, you'd always have a choice," he says, her eyes finding his with surprise but something like hope, too.

"My lady, we must go," her guard says, placing a hand too low on her back. 

"You do not touch her," he yells at the man, who, startled, pulls back. But then the guard sneers, laughing, "I can touch her all I like, Hound, just like you had your bloody paws on her," laughing even more as he grabs the little bird by the arm to demonstrate. The bars are all that's keeping this fucker alive this second, Sandor fumes. His anger mounts, and he acts without thought. Grabbing at Sansa's other arm near him, it draws the attention of her worthless guard, who foolishly enters his reach. In a moment, he pulls the guard against the bars with one hand in a unyielding grip. Letting go of Sansa, he draws the guard's sword and runs him through, her screams a distant sound. The guard falls to the floor, the torch with him though Sansa reacts to save it, and he can see the deep red pool around him, his life ending. 

"He's dead?" Sansa's voice shakes as she holds the torch over her lost guard. 

"He would've done all he could to you, little bird," he expresses plainly as a fact. At least he was able to take care of this one. Who assigned this shit to the little bird? His anger is barely quenched with this death. 

"Come here, little bird," he saying, beckoning her forward. She looks at him, hesitant, but then picks her way back close to him. She's trembling all over but not crying, that's good. 

"I asked for a new guard in the morning, hoping to put him off till then," she admits, scared. Silly bird, the guard wouldn't risk this and wait.

"You must go, get us food if you can, we're dying down here. Follow the way you came and go straight to your chambers."

She nods, looking him over in the beam of the torch before heading on her way. His eyes trail after her figure until it is dark once more.

**Sansa POV**

In a rush to return to her chambers, Sansa's heart is racing. Still, she is strangely relieved to not have to pacify Lewys this night. Clegane had been different, less the frightening Hound and more a man desperate from circumstance. He still killed a man right in front of her. 

Crossing the drawbridge back to the holdfast, a guard stops her, asking her business. Speechless and unprepared, she is frozen. However, a knight inside the courtyard recognizes her, "Lady Sansa," he says to her. Telling the guards, "Allow her to pass." 

He bows his head to her, and she curtsies to him in return. He takes the torch from her, extending his arm, "Alekyne Florent," he introduces himself. "Thank you, my lord," she says, her breath shallow. As she takes his arm, Sansa points the way, but he seems already aware. 

"My lady, why are you out without your guard?"

She takes a deep breath to consider her story, "I'm afraid my guard was out, and I was restless and wished to see what remained of the godswood, my lord." She hopes that suffices. 

"Is restlessness a trait of yours?" He glances down at her. 

"I should hope not. I fear it is only the war, my lord," she answers, dismayed at the line of questioning. 

"The night is dark and full of terrors, my lady, if you cannot sleep, stay by the fires. There you will find light even in dark times." He says, making her shudder. The fires only frighten her, but she hides her true thoughts well.  

"Yes, my lord," she replies meekly, and this must please him as he leads her to her chambers in silence. 

At her door, the lack of guard is clear, and she further explains, "I requested a new guard from Ser Davos. He will procure one in the morning, my lord."

"I will see to your guardsmen," he speaks decisively, making her wonder at his determination.  

"If I may,” he bows his head, his hand on her door, "I would tell you, you are beautiful in all ways, my lady," then opening it with a stoic sort of grace. The sudden compliment makes her heart thrum with nervous dread. Years trained in courtesy allow her to sink into a curtsy and reply quietly, "I thank you, my lord," before quickly stepping into the relative safety of her room. The door closes, and she bars it. 

His retreating steps soothe her as she contemplates her encounter. Lord Alekyne acted the knight, but there was a coldness there that troubles her. He couldn't be her betrothed, could he? Offering a compliment did not seem natural for such a man, almost like he had to say such. He does not appear of an age with her father, perhaps closer to Clegane, she considers. He truly is a follower of the red god, she looks down where she plays with the knot of her cloak. She sighs, Sandor said they'd marry her to someone like that. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: Visit with Lady Melisandre

Carefully, Sansa picks her way down the stair to Melisandre's chambers, more anticipating what the red priestess has summoned her for than the difficult winding of the old staircase. Her two guards follow her diligently, burned men that Lord Alekyne set for her since the night she saw Sandor. They're always there never speaking to her but following her or restricting her movement. No more visits to her shield in a week.

She'd been worried about Sandor's condition since seeing him visibly weakened from just days without sustenance, or wine, she notes. Thus, when Ser Davos came to ask she compose a letter to Robb and her mother, not unlike the one Cersei had her scrawl, she petitioned to be assured her shield was being fed before her hand would touch paper. Davos seemed surprised she would not freely write to her family. She tried to word her concerns without drawing suspicion to her visit. Also, as she had not heard if Lewys had been found and would not want to be associated with his death. In the end, the letter was written, and she has been assured of her shield receiving food. That Sandor would doubt her, she shakes her head, she is not naive, optimistic perhaps, but she knows he won't be magically released. 

Reaching the landing to Lady Melisandre's chambers, the door is opened by her guard, and she enters as they station themselves outside. She is not surprised to see Lord Alekyne there. Where Davos is too occupied, this man has made a point to see to her. Hoping that lighting the fires with Princess Shireen would make the strange ritual more tolerable, she was dismayed at his appearance at her side that next evening, leading her in the chant as he stared into the fires that she tries to avoid. 

She does not leave with Shireen either but must wait, often an hour or more, for him to escort her to her chambers. She cannot bear his silence every evening but never knows what words to utter, for she does not wish to encourage his designs on her nor provoke his ire. She hates how no one has informed her of the betrothal, but yet he seems to assume she's already his to command, though luckily he has not taken liberties such as Lewys had as of yet. 

He holds his hand out for hers as she enters, which she grants, and she curtsies to both of them there together. "Lord Alekyne, Lady Melisandre." Seems odd he would be alone with the Red Woman. "How pleasant to meet with you both this day." Alekyne seems to smile slightly at her address, more in pride it appears than admiration.

Melisandre speaks plainly, "Alekyne has asked for you to meet with us, Lady Sansa, please take a seat." Lowering herself, Sansa surveys the shuttered room, lit by fires, with shelves on one side containing all manner of bottles and rolled up parchment. "Thank you," she replies, waiting for what he has in mind for her. 

"Lady Sansa," he says, "I know that the Lord of Light is new to you, but I wish for you to know him as I have come to."

"Why?" Sansa asks simply, trying to seem ignorant of what they mean for her. He responds with a small laugh, but the red woman looks right through her with a staid expression. 

"My dear lady, if I may call you that, what was it you were taught of the gods?" He grins with a patronizing gleam to his eye while she attempts to maintain a pleasant facade.

"Well, there are the old gods of my father with the great heart trees. And then there are the new gods, the Seven, that my mother followed," she tries to answer in the same vein.

"Which do you follow, Lady Sansa?" Melisandre's attention turns directly to her. 

"I don't pray anymore," she says, afraid to declare anything, "But I suppose more the Seven."

Melisandre takes a moment to just stare into her, making her heart thrum with the exposure as she's being studied. "So much disenchantment in one so young," Melisandre says, pouring wine for her, which she readily accepts to dull the interaction. "You will see. The Seven is but a myth, stories told to deceive. What do you believe comes after?" 

"I suppose there are the seven heavens and seven hells," she ays what she was taught.

*"There is only one hell, the one we live in now," she says to Sansa, who swallows hard in response but cannot find doubt for this truth. Life has been hell since she came here. Melisandre goes further, "There is only one god, the Lord of Light that brings all joy, light, and happiness. And the Other, who is evil and darkness itself." She wishes this wasn't happening, Sandor told her not to believe what she tells her, but here the Red Woman is, expectant. Her charm is so strong, it makes her feel powerless. "Leave us, Alekyne," Melisandre says, her eyes still strangely fixed on hers. After bowing to them both, he finds the door. 

"Lady Sansa,” Melisandre says as she focuses her attention instead on developing the fire contained near them. “I’ve seen you avoid looking into the flames, even Alekyne has brought this to my attention. Are you afraid of what you will see there? Or what have seen?”

“I have seen nothing, Lady Melisandre,” she says, feeling taut as she eyes the growing fire to her side.

“Look, Sansa, keep your eyes on the flames. There is nothing to fear in the fire,” Melisandre says, coming near and ushering her toward the fire. She draws her hand through the licking flames, and they dance in her vision as she tries not to look. All she can see is Sandor’s face telling her not to let her decide what she believes, but she feels like she has no choice.

“Sansa, you must focus on the flames, you must see for the night is dark and full of terrors. Only the Lord of the Light can show you the way,” Melisandre's warm touch and voice renders her spellbound toward the flickering fire. Surrendering, she allows the bright light of the flames burn into her eyes, hurting in its intensity. She wants to look away but something draws her in with it's strong pull. She feels like she could faint again, like the screams of Tommen ringing out are making her capitulate.

The soft voice of Melisandre trying to soothe her fades away as the searing light turns to blackness, her eyes seeing only the dark as if she’s falling into a pit until she sees Sandor Clegane again. She feels the roughness of wool around her, and then she can see the burned and bloodied cloak she wears. “Little bird, I’ll keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me,” he repeats to her, standing next to her in the soft ground, his eyes softer, similar to when he was in the dungeon but not as wild. Her mother is there, behind her and with a sweet smile as she catches her eye. Next she sees Robb with a woman, looking older. _Where is the rest of the family?_ she wonders. Then she sees Arya far away, coming through the trees, then Bran and Rickon.

She turns back to see the weirwood tree, the very one she remembers from Winterfell. This can never burn she thinks, looking at it’s great, white branches stretching over her, but then she notices the face. Tears of red sap flowing down the bark make her suck in a breath at the sight, and then it speaks to her, making her body turn cold and shiver, “We bear witness.” Confused she runs away, back towards her home, her mother asking, “Sansa, where are you going?” Sansa hears Sandor yelling, “Little bird,” but her tracks only stop when she breaks from the trees and look up at the castle. Winterfell is burning. The flames of the castle turn brighter as they break into the immediate flames in front of her, leaving her shaking as Melisandre helps her back into her seat.

Sansa’s breathing heavily as the images of what she saw appear before her in quick succession, greatly distressing her mind as it attempts to make sense of the confusing visions. Melisandre speaks to her, “I know what it is you saw,” making her tremble to be so exposed to the powerful priestess. She rises, opening the door to speak to the guardsmen, but Sansa’s too engrossed with what has occurred to hear. To think the flames actually showed her a vision, with her family, and Winterfell, and Clegane was there. Why was she wearing his cloak?

“What does it mean?” She forgets herself, wishing to piece together if there is any meaning at all.

Melisandre considers her, then says, “That is for you to discover in time.”

Sansa wishes she could leave right now, not wanting to further implicate herself in any way to her disadvantage. “I am afraid I am very tired and wish to return to my chambers,” she informs Melisandre.

The lady replies, calm, “You must stay, Lady Sansa, I understand the strength of these visions myself and will see that you are well composed before you leave.” Sansa sighs and reaches for the wine again. Melisandre stops her though and insists on water.

Waiting to be approved to go back to her chambers, she's surprised to hear the loud clank of many guards and yelling coming from the staircase before a loud knock on the door and it swings open. She gasps, standing up, at the sight of Sandor Clegane being escorted in chains into the room. He’s proving difficult as several guardsman fill the room to drag him, but when he catches sight of her, he stills, relinquishing his struggle as he willing comes in. “What is this, little bird?” he looks confused at her with that wild look in his eyes from being down below.

Seeing him after her vision is too much, and she walks towards him, forgetting all propriety, “Sandor, are you being fed? Are you okay?” she looks him over, so filthy.

“They have brought us food recently,” he nods to her but casts a harrowing glare at Melisandre, “What have you brought me here for?”

“I wish to hear an account of you serving as Lady Sansa’s sworn shield,” Melisandre returns his gaze, not cowed at all.

“I’m glad you are at least being fed now,” Sansa says with a smile, relishing in her small victory.

“Why you don’t want to discuss Sansa’s betrothal?” Sandor throws back at the red priestess, making Sansa seize up at the topic.

“Did she discuss this with you?” Melisandre only looks amused.

“Why I never…” she starts, disliking how this woman always makes her out of sorts.

“I am aware you know, Lady Sansa,” Melisandre glances at her. “What would you like to know about it?”

Gathering up her courage, she says to Melisandre, “I would like to discuss the terms of my acceptance with King Stannis.”

“Terms are being discussed with your family,” Melisandre sayss firmly.

“And yet I am still expected to say the words without my own terms being agreed upon,” she stresses.

“Lady Sansa should have a say in her own marriage,” Sandor speaks up in her defense.

Melisandre’s lips curl up in a smile that makes her uncomfortable. “I will see to it you have your audience, Lady Sansa.”

“I wish for Lord Alekyne to be in attendance,” she says, swallowing hard at the real steps in her plan. He may be an advocate for her requests, she hopes.

“So your account,” Melisandre looks at one of them then the other.

“I swore my sword to her and told her I would keep her safe,” Sandor says, succinct.

“Why? When did this start?” Melisandre looks to her. When did it start? That thought never entered her mind, he’s always been there, in some way helping her in a small way that gave her hope. And then in bigger ways.

“Sandor came for me during the bread riots when I was nearly taken…” she trails off, catching Melisandre’s gaze at hers. Sandor is being quiet. She dare not go further.

Melisandre nods, thinking. "Is this how you remember it, Clegane?" she asks him, and Sansa's gaze turns to the man. Seeing him in this state is not agreeable in the least. He's barely standing up due to the weight of the chains and his malnourishment, a sheen of sweat covering him from the struggle here, adding to the stench. She turns to grab her water and approaches him to provide the rest to him. He takes of it greedily, so she goes to refill the cup for him.

He says to the red priestess now, "Aye, Lady Sansa tells it true." 

Melisandre does not seem happy with their sparse responses, delving, "Why would you have to save her at the riots? Did the bastard king not order you to do so?"

Sandor laughs bitterly, "From what I heard, the bastard said, 'Let ‘em have her,' but I had got him safe to the gates and cut my way back to get her." 

Melisandre looks strangely at them both, and Sansa takes the moment to supply him with more water and some figs she found nearby. He nods to her again, taking her offerings. "Why were you in her room the night of the Blackwater battle?" Melisandre then asks, staring directly at Sandor. He sighs, not speaking up, and Sansa dares not answer that question. Melisandre advances toward him, looking deep into his eyes as though attempting to divine her answers while Sandor stares back resolute.

"Was it the fire then that made you run? You were going to flee, weren't you? But first the little bird," Melisandre glances at Sansa with a hand outstretched. Both remain silent as the priestess infers what she can.

"Did you agree to leave with him?" Melisandre asks now of her. 

"She did not," Sandor speaks for her, herself speechless and unnerved as Melisandre renders her. "The burned men were soon at the door, and she told me to swear my sword since I told her I'd keep her safe." 

"Because they're all afraid of you," Melisandre finishes, and Sansa gasps. That was in her vision! She truly saw it. 

Still, seeing that Melisandre knows so much already emboldens her to demand, "You see now. Why must he be kept in the black cells if he serves me, not the Lannisters?" 

"Sansa," she hears him grate her name in warning. 

"It is not for me to decide. Your 'shield' though is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, perhaps second only to his brother, Lady Sansa," Melisandre says, nonchalant just to frustrate her efforts. 

"Yet you would allow yourself defenseless with the likes of me," Sandor advances in turn, finding the strength to raise his arms up to her neck. Melisandre reacts quicker, stepping back and raising her own hands as she incants and flames burst forth from her fingertips. Sandor pulls back, losing his balance with the heavy chains that drag him to the ground.

"I am never defenseless against a man who fears fire as greatly as you," Melisandre smiles cruelly, her tone calm but threatening as the flames still dance in her hands.

"Guards," she raises her voice, and the burned men reenter. "Return him to his cell."

"No," Sansa can't help but respond, wanting to extend her hand out to him. She does not understand why, but even the vision solidified her need to have him restored to truly be her shield. She would feel so much safer and less alone in this fearful place. 

"You may go, Lady Sansa," Melisandre says, but she just watches after his retreating form. After he clears the doorway, she deflates to see Lord Alekyne enter, looking sour.

"How could you bring him here?" He has the nerve to direct to Melisandre. 

"He was in her vision," Melisandre says simply, and confusion masks his features. "He is her shield truly," she smiles, and Sansa notes a bit of condescension lies within it. 

"I would be safer if he was returned to me, Lord Alekyne" Sansa says with as sweet a smile as she can and a deep curtsy to show her respect. She's left wondering what his purpose was for her to meet with Melisandre and what ends Melisandre may use her for. The knowledge the red priestess now holds is singular and dangerous, unnerving Sansa with how much power the priestess holds over her for good or ill. 

He looks down at her in the indulgent way he has lately cultivated, and she's reminded again how much he makes her feel like a child. She may still be young, but her childhood is over. Still, she must be kind to him, "Would you escort me back to my chambers, my lord?" She attempts another smile to win his favor. 

"Of course, do not worry yourself with these matters though, sweet girl." He extends his arm to her, which she delicately takes. 

"Till this evening, Lady Melisandre," he bows and Sansa also says her polite goodbye and leaves with him, fraught with the burden of today's events. What could it all mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A number of quotes, particularly how Melisandre discusses the Seven with Shireen denoted with an asterisk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos POV: Riverrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's too quick probably for Davos to make it to Riverrun, but I wanted to go ahead with this side of things.

Traveling a breakneck pace by boat and horse, Ser Davos arrives at the Stark camp outside Riverrun exhausted but bent on his mission. The fog of the morning has lifted, but gray skies lend a sober atmosphere as he trots through to the castle, a chill in his bones. The burning heart banner unfurled, the faces of the men along the path through the tents show a wary distrust, making him clench his jaw. A good size force he notes, and he's heard many positive accounts of the strategy so far of their would-be king.

Arriving at the castle, he is led into the great hall and announced, "An emissary from Lord Stannis Baratheon, your grace, Ser Davos Seaworth." 

"Lord Stark," he bows, and "Lady Catelyn, Lord Edmure,” causing one of the assumed kingsguard to come toward him demanding, "You will address the King of the North according to his station."

"I serve only one king, Stannis, who sits the Iron Throne. I come here to ask you recognize the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms," he remains bowed.

The guardsman draws his sword, but Robb stands, speaking as he approaches him and waving down the drawn sword, "Not the humble address I anticipated, Ser Davos, quite brave to walk in here proclaiming Stannis king…or stupid." Laughter echoes in the hall. "He may have the Iron Throne but still hasn't defeated the Lannisters."

"You are correct. I didn't mean offense," he lends. Formalities were never his strongpoint. "Stannis seeks to ally with your northern forces, and I brings terms to present."

The Stark boy, not a boy anymore, nods, thoughtful, before looking directly at him, "We hear sorcery was afoot at the Blackwater. Why should we trust Stannis?"

He had anticipated such questions, “It was the Lord of Light who saved many soldiers from the wildfire of the Lannisters. The red priestess, Lady Melisandre, her prayers were answered."

"Prayers," he hears Lady Catelyn scoff. 

Robb continues, "And is burning the townsfolk prayers for her, too? Many say she is the true queen of Stannis."

Davos grits his teeth, many say she's the queen of his bed even. Only he has seen the shadows she brought forth, demons more like. "Stannis has executed highborn from the Lannister court by burning, if that is of what you speak. The red priestess is an advisor of the king as well as I." 

"And are you a follower of this fire God?" Robb asks him, looking like he had already assumed.

"No," he answers truthfully, "Stannis is the only one I serve."

There was some shock, almost relief, in the room, and Lady Catelyn stood to speak in the pause. "Ser Davos, my daughters, are they well?" 

"Lady Sansa is at the Red Keep, and I bring a letter from her," he retrieves the letter, which one of the guardsman hands to their king.

"No Arya?" Lady Catelyn voices as a desperate plea, and the boy turns to grab his mother's hand. 

He had not known there was a second daughter. "No, Lady Catelyn. We can have soldiers search the city for her with a description from you."

Lady Catelyn closes her eyes for a moment, clearly shaken but remaining composed beyond this slight indication. "Thank you," Robb supplies, his lips tightening at the grim news. They must not have known she was not at the keep.

"There is something I must say," Lady Catelyn looks to Robb who nods. She smoothes her skirts before meeting his eyes in a stern and piercing manner, a change he had not anticipated in the woman after her concern for her daughters. She speaks with finality, "I witnessed Lord Renly's death."  Startled at such a declaration, knowing what he does, Davos tries not to flinch despite his great worry. "And I know what I saw. It was a demon, a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon, and it slit Renly's throat, through his gorget, and disappeared in a moment. A woman now in my service was also witness." A silence fills the room at her description of events, and he knows they're looking to him to corroborate or deny. He had no notion such a witness would be present, and it unnerves him greatly.

He decides the truth is the only thing to be respected here and says, "The Lady Melisandre hails from Asshai where she learned to bind shadows to her will."

There is uproar at his statement, those present demanding he and all of Stannis's men with him be cast out of Riverrun. Their king quiets them with a hand, but it is his mother who breaks in with a sharp accusation. "Stannis killed his own brother?"

"It was the path he chose," Davos hates to admit.

Robb gives his mother a repudiating glare, making him wonder about their relationship, before addressing him with scorn, "Are we to understand this is the red woman's influence? Shadows and fire." 

With assurance and strength long cultivated, Davos defends his king, "Stannis is a man of his word who will honor the law and any agreements met above all. Stannis still saw I paid the price for smuggling," he undoes his glove and holds up his hand, "despite honoring me with a knighthood for my aid to Storm's End. The Lady Melisandre may be an advisor, but Stannis is not a fanatic. Reason and logic are his masters. Stannis is the one who sits the Iron Throne with the rightful claim and is willing to do what it takes to bring order to the Seven Kingdoms. No other man alive can match his military strategy, which is why he wishes to ally with you, Lord Stark. Stannis only had respect for your lord father and believes the same honor and integrity resides in his blood." Davos finishes his speech looking directly in the Young Wolf’s eyes and with a bow to the northern king.

After a moment heavy with anticipation, Robb Stark responds affirmatively, "Aye, we will see what these terms are." He'd hoped practicality would win out over these other concerns.

After waiting and then going over Stannis's requisites in the terms he carried, Davos waits for the Stark to comment. He was surprised his mother was left out of the small council, only the Tully men and northerners present. 

With his hands steepled, Robb begins, "An ally is different than bending the knee, but if it meant the North was safe, I know it's what my lord father would have done and only to Stannis. But we will not accept this fire god. And will rise up again if necessary." He deliberately spells out. 

Though this isn’t his ardent interest, still Davos points out, "The terms are only asking a temple be built in Riverrun, Wintertown, and White Harbor out of the King's purse." 

"If what we discussed earlier is true, I want no part of it on my lands. This is a foothold of that red woman." Robb points down at the table with insistence. "Aye," the northmen echo the sentiment in the solar. 

Though he knows nothing will deter Melisandre from gaining a foothold for her god anywhere, he has no qualms with striking the proposal. "Then consider it struck," he motions to the scribe traveling with him to amend the terms.

"What exactly is the plan for support from the forces I command?" Robb eyes him, more calm.

Davos lays out the plan, "If agreed, I would continue here with you as emissary and send word to Stannis of when your forces intend to move against Casterly Rock and then into the Reach to draw away the forces at siege around King's Landing. At which, Stannis's force would follow after, trapping the armies to surrender."

"That leaves me vulnerable if he doesn't follow after." Robb points out, shaking his head slightly.

His wobbling only puts the spark of confidence needed in Davos’s voice as he argues, "Stannis has nothing to gain in crossing the Starks and Tullys if he is to restore order to the kingdoms. The king intends to subdue the Lannister-Tyrell force and appoint a new great lord over Highgarden and have yourself appoint a new lord over Casterly Rock with approval of the king."

Robb considers the proposal, returning to his steepled fingers before relenting, "That is acceptable if my own terms are met."

Davos nods, "Please continue. Stannis has imbued me with the authority to agree to these negotiations in his name."

Robb takes a deep breath as he begins, "As soon as the battle is fought. A contingent will be provided to assist in ridding the Ironborn from the North." With a look down at the table he continues, "Resources will be provided to repair Winterfell and generous stores for the coming winter.” Davos didn’t know Winterfell needed repairs. “A northman and a man of the Riverlands will have a seat on the small council. As far as the Riverlands, Edmure," Robb holds his hand out to the lord of Riverrun. 

Edmure is eager to have his say, "Aye, the Mountain must be dealt with. He eludes our scouting groups we've sent, one having to retreat from one attempt at taking the man down. He and his band are a menace to the Riverlands, Tywin Lannister has let them loose." Edmure ends with a grimace. Davos grits his teeth but nods in kind, considering taking down that man will be a difficult task. "Stores for the winter as well, the lands have missed a planting for this war and it does not bode well." 

"Winter is coming," the young king speaks his house words as he nods to Edmure's requests. 

"These terms are all agreeable. Stores will come in time from the Reach. As far as the Ironborn, I will see to the contingent myself. The Mountain, I will send word with the rider to have a contingent sent to the Riverlands once possible. Stannis may not risk parting with any men when he marches on the army, considering he must leave a force to defend King's Landing as well." 

Edmure sighs, frustrated at the potential wait, but Robb speaks up, "There is another matter." He seems reluctant to continue. "Jaime Lannister has been," he breathes in heavily trying to find the words and rubbing his temples, "released by my lady mother into the custody of her sworn sword, a Lady Brienne of Tarth. She is a swordswoman,” he waves his hand in explanation, making Davos narrow his eyes at the peculiar distinction, trying to understand, “She is taking him to King's Landing in exchange for my sisters. We have yet to recover the pair, and I hope she returns but cannot be certain." 

Davos's brows raise in surprise at such a turn of events, must be why Lady Catelyn has fallen out of favor. "Thank you for informing me, my lord," is his initial response as his mind tries to see how it will affect the plans. He states the necessity that jumps out at him, "It is key that Ser Jaime be found before he makes it to his father's forces."

"We will continue sending out search parties. Unfortunately Stannis would have us move in the opposite direction," Robb seems to chew on the predicament. "As for my sister's betrothal, I may have to marry her to a Frey. So that agreement will not be met today. I will consult with my mother and if I agree to the match, it will likely occur when I do bend the knee. In any case, the wedding must take place in a sept or a godswood." 

Davos is surprised at the flippant attitude Robb has over the matter of his sister, but he chooses to avoid pointing out that the man in the match would not consent to either such ceremony, only the temple will do for a Florent. "Lady Melisandre is keen on the match, my lord," he gravely points out. "You may discuss it in King's Landing, as you wish," he responds, only truly caring to get the Young Wolf's help in battle. He seems one willing to prove himself. Though the red woman will be disappointed, she's the one that suggested he come here though, he surmises, and she will likely anticipate this shortcoming. 

"Prepared?" He looks to the scribe, who brings the document for Robb to study. Seeing the terms are to his satisfaction, he takes the feather to add his name and seal. "From what I know, my father supported Stannis's claim and so will I," he states more to the men following him than himself. Hard to read some of the faces whether they show approval or not.

Davos explains, "A copy will be made and a rider sent with news of our departure to the west." 

Robb lets out a deep breath, looking over the signed copy, then looks over at him, "I will discuss with my men the time, but I anticipate no less than five days hence." 

"Aye,” he stands and bows, sensing his time is up but secure in knowing what will hold. Appears as if the young king had anticipated much of today's meeting and was already agreeable to the path. Davos heads to his guest chamber for some well-appointed rest.  

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre POV

Coming to see Stannis, Melisandre bows her head to her king. He looks weary. He hasn't regained his strength from the shadows bound and likely never will, but the siege weighs heavily on him as he seeks a way out. 

"How are the walls?" She akss, knowing he's been spending days working with men to make sure the siege holds as the army has spread around the gates.

"Still holding, though the townfolk are growing even more desperate, considering we had led a blockade prior to this seige. Hopefully we'll hear from Davos soon, we need the North and Riverlands." He shakes his head, then annoyance entering his tone, questions her, "Why do I have to see that Stark girl?" 

"It's only a petition over dinner. She wants Clegane instated as her guard in exchange for her willingness to marry," Melisandre points out. The girl didn't even understand her vision, Melisandre smiles to herself, the cloak, the heart tree. If it weren't for the potion she placed in the wine, it would give her pause. No, it was but a hallucination of the girl, not a true vision from the flames. R'Hllor has greater plans than the girl could see. It had the desired effect though, Alekyne should be satisfied. Still, Winterfell is burning, she purses her lip at that thought. The news had made it through the siege with one of her spies, a betrayal to the Starks.

"Preposterous," Stannis scoffs, "she's a silly girl."

"Silly girls don't seek their own terms for marriage. She means it, your grace. She wishes to have a measure of her own safety, even if it is a façade. Clegane will stay loyal to the girl though, I have seen it. If you give her this win, she will remain here, satisfied she's an ally, and as a Stark, will act as promised," Melisandre details the girl's motive as she's perceives it.

"Less men to spare on guarding a girl safe in this keep," Stannis wavers in his thought, a bitter note to it as he leans against his arms on the table.

"Robb Stark will join your cause. I have seen the great battle in the Reach, where you are victorious," she exhorts him. Willing her certainty to be his confidence. "Davos will have only reached there, we will hear within another week." Stannis's fists ball on the table as he rises towards her. His hands find purchase on her waist, and she can feel his urgency for her, pulling her near him.

"And I will be ready," she moves one of his hands over her belly that grows rapidly, the pain immense. 

"But how?" He asks, questioning worry in his eye.

"Lord Tywin will be erased. I have seen to it," her lips turn up in confidence to present this gift to him to aid the war.

His mouth parts, contemplating, and his eyes look above her, satisfied, "Tywin dead. What Lannisters will be left?"

"Tyrion is thought to have died in the battle. I saw to Cersei, Lancel, and the two bastard boys. Her daughter is in Dorne. Jaime Lannister still lives. It is thought Tywin's brother is with the army,” she says.

Stannis grunts his comprehension before that worried cloud descends again, "Who, Melisandre? Who have you done this with?" 

"A servant of yours and the Lord of Light. Must you know his name?" She looks quizzical at him, but she knows that dangerous jealousy is speaking for her king, which will lead only to ruin. Stannis's eyes close as he grips her arms. Opening them, he releases her to take a seat, running a hand through his hair.

"Once the siege clears, we will pursue them as soon as we're able," he says, making peace with her. 

Melisandre moves to lean on the table by his side and addresses him more cautious, "Now that you are King on the Iron Throne, there is the question of your daughter. She continues to reject the faith, resenting her new duties to start the fires. She is not a suitable heir."

Stannis sighs, giving her a dour look with his brows knitted. "What would you have me do? This is hardly a new worry to me."

"Selyse must be set aside, your grace, you must see it is so," Melisandre persuades. "You must have sons."

"And would you give me these?" His eyes shift to sink into hers boldly.

Her lips curl at his presumption, but he knows better. "I am not suitable for such a role, and we both know it," she softly places her hand on his.

A knock on the door limits their discussion as time for the dinner has arrived. He holds her gaze as he allows, "Come in," to the servants and stands, backing sway from the table. She glides over to his ear and whispers, "I'll make sure she doesn't suffer." To which, he at first looks surprised, but his mouth is set and he gives a quick nod.

The servants busy themselves setting the table for the evening meal. Then, Alekyne arrives with Sansa on his arm, looking pleased with her. She even noted the girl has been more than attentive to the man this week, even seeming to serve the red god sincerely since the vision to please him more than out of newfound conviction, she surmises. Unfortunate that Alekyne underestimates her.

"Your grace, my lady," Sansa curtsies to them with a polite smile.

She gives a small grin in response, inquiring, "How are you, dear Sansa? You look well. I'm glad the vision in the flames did not tax you.”

"You put my mind at ease," the girl inclines her head in thanks and shares a meaningful smile with Alekyne. He can barely look at herself, she notes. Feeling Stannis's gaze, she turns to see the disgust plain there. Alekyne's aging from the shadow-binding must be evident to him. 

"May I see you alone for a moment, Melisandre?" He curtly demands of her, and they step inside his private chamber for a moment. 

"Really, him? I should have known it was that Florent." Stannis accuses her.

She appeals to him, her hands held out, "I cannot take more from you, Stannis. It could kill you. He believes it was his duty to his king. Hopefully, this is the last," she looks into his eyes willing him to let go a little of what petty ownership he thinks he has over her.

"Fine," his jaw clenches as he steps back out into the room. Sansa and Alekyne rise from their seats as Stannis enters. As they take their seats, she notes, the meal is ample considering, but it is wasted on her. 

Stannis wastes no time, asking Sansa over his roasted chicken, "Your petition, Lady Sansa?" 

The girl chances a look at her, her mouth open slightly, before setting down her fork and knife to address Stannis. The girl remembers to smile at Alekyne before she begins. "Your grace, I have become aware of a potential betrothal with Lord Alekyne and would like to seek terms for my agreement to the marriage." She looks as resolute as she can in the face of Stannis. 

"Terms are being arranged with your family as part of the alliance. I do not know yet if they have agreed to the match." Stannis lays out the basic argument.

"I understand, your grace, but there are additional terms subject to myself that my family are not aware of, being separated from me nigh on a year." The girl faithfully argues her point. 

"I'm sure we will be able to work out these matters, dear Sansa," Alekyne tries to reassure her.

"Yes, perhaps your potential betrothed would be able to meet these terms. Continue, Lady Sansa," Stannis says. 

"Well, first, your grace," the lady rests her hands in her lap, "I request to have my mother and eldest brother in attendance. Perhaps when he comes to bend the knee." Melisandre anticipated such a request, but it is small truly. Likely, terms with her family will not be met until they arrive considering Davos is the one negotiating with them. All he cares about is the immediate alliance to win the war.

"Possible," Stannis allows, his hands motioning to her to continue.

"Also, there are a number of items I need for my new life with Lord Alekyne. The Lannister's did not allow me any new garments while I was their prisoner. I would request a small sum of gold." Sansa says, making Melisandre narrow her eyes at this unexpected demand.

"How much?" Stannis eyes the girl, amused she can tell.

"One hundred gold dragons, your grace," Sansa looks down at her hands. 

Picking up her goblet of wine, Melisandre remarks, "Surely half of that would be more than plenty, my lady, unless you plan to leave us." Her eyes find the girls', unprepared as she was for her input, making her quiver slightly. 

"Oh no, my lady, your grace, that is not my intent." Her shallow breathing can be heard through her reply as she looks between them both. She fears she’s ruined the chance to get to her next request, the one for Clegane.

"See that her needs," Stannis inflects, "are met, Lord Alekyne." He looks to the lord, ready to be done with this meal, he moves his plate toward the servant.

"Thank you, your grace, my lord," Sansa recovers her composure. "There is another matter though. My sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, still remains in the dungeons, suffering. As Lady Melisandre witnessed in my vision from the Lord of Light, Clegane is truly my sworn shield, vowing his sword to me and is not the Lannister Hound he once was. My safety is important to me, and I hope to my future betrothed to allow Clegane to return to my service." She's shaken slightly but poured her soul into this petition to Stannis, keeping her eyes trained on the man.

"Lady Sansa," Alekyne interferes, "My men will keep you safe. There is no need."

Sansa will not be shaken from her point so easily, "My lord, I thank you, but I wish to have my own guard. What has he done to deserve the dungeons when he has vowed to be my sworn shield? I do not understand it, your grace."

Deciding to throw her support to make Stannis's acquiescence more tenable, Melisandre says, "It is true, the man is loyal to Lady Sansa. She is our guest and must be allowed her own guard, unconventional though it may be." Stannis looks to her, his eyes doubting. 

"Say I agree to return your shield to you, what then?" Stannis asks, still not wanting to relent.

Sansa responds in her placid way, "If I may, your grace, I would see that his belongings are returned to him, including his courser. That concludes the terms I seek for my consent to the marriage. Please, your grace, may he be released this evening, and I will make any further agreements then." 

"Lord Alekyne, what say you?" Stannis asks, and a perfect smile graces the girl's pretty features as she turns to him.

"Your grace," he nods, clearing his throat as his eyes survey the girl, "She does seem bent on having her sworn shield restored. I daresay her safety is important to me, and if the Hound proves loyal, he has few equals." He seems hard-pressed to question the girl. 

"So be it," Stannis says, "Clegane will be released to you in the morning, and his belongings accounted for."

"Oh, thank you, your grace," Sansa can barely hold back her elation to have her petition accepted. "My lord, my lady," Sansa inclines her head to each of them, a winning smile to her betrothed. 

Dessert is served, and Sansa seems beside herself with joy. "Lemoncakes are my favorite," the girl speaks and Melisandre can see the whisper of the merry, young girl she must have been. 

"I made sure you'd have them, my lady," Alekyne smiles slightly to the girl, earning a sweet smile from the girl. 

Melisandre allows the girl a bite before she addresses her, "Lady Sansa, I'm afraid I have some troubling news from your home,” making the girl remember to don her placid facade as she looks up, readying herself for a new tragedy. She continues, "Winterfell was taken by the Ironborn, led by Theon Greyjoy." The girl gasps, Alekyne taking her hand. "When the band of Northmen sent to reclaim it arrived, the castle was pillaged and burned. No sign of the young Stark boys, except two small burned bodies aloft in the courtyard, presumed to be them."

"Winterfell burning," Sansa appears to understand, the shock at remembering her vision plain. She mumbles inaudibly, looking dazed before recovering to address them, "I apologize, but I must retire, your grace," the girl feebly gets out, standing.

Alekyne is quick to take her arm in support. "Your grace, my lady," he inclines his head as he ushers the young woman out the door. The lemoncakes remain, forgotten.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV: Release from the Black Cells

She didn't strike him as a woman who toyed with her prey, considering her propensity for burning first, interrogations later. Still, he didn't know why he was being drug out of the black cells this time, but he was too weak to fight it. He hoped to the Stranger for a quick death and that they haven't resorted to burning his lot. Those taken seemed further between, and he held fast to the knowledge he may still be sent to the Wall. He did not know day or night, but when he was brought above, he sought the sky, guessing just past the hour of the wolf.

Taken into the barracks, he's thrown to his knees in front of a man he does not know, his hands still shackled. The man paces in front of him, addressing him, "We only met in passing, but I believe you are called the Hound, are you not?" He grunts in response, and the man turns to face him. 

"I am Lord Alekyne of House Florent. You are being released into your lady's service, Lady Sansa Stark." What! He raises his head to look at the bastard, his shock clear. How did she manage that? He grits his teeth, thinking he probably won't like the answer.

"As she is to be my betrothed, I will consider you under my provision," he says, making it sound like a tight noose. Fucking hells, she's to marry this man.

"I serve her only," Sandor says, not wanting to deal with his display of control. 

"If you intend to stay in her service during our marriage, you will do well to show me the utmost respect and follow the rules I have in place for my lady's guards." Sandor's mind is reeling with this knowledge, the poor little bird, still in her gilded cage. He clearly thinks I'll serve him if I serve Sansa. This will be a tight walk to traverse.

"Understood, Clegane?" The man asks to confirm. He grunts, yes, he understood clearly. 

"If I have any cause for complaint or suspicion from you, understand it will be brought before the king." The man continues his stern lecture, "Lady Sansa is to light the fires every evening, even if I cannot accompany her, that is a decree from his grace. She is not to leave the keep without my direct permission and will not be allowed until the siege has lifted. You must make a report of her movements daily to me." His eyes go wide at the sheer insanity of it. She will be this Florent's prisoner now, even Cersei didn't need a daily report, seven hells. "The lady is not allowed alone with any men, yourself included. In the future, all correspondence must be routed through me. Those are the basic rules. Do you understand?" 

Cage for his lady and a tight leash for her dog, he grits his teeth, hating this bastard already. "Aye," he answers the man, seeing him for what he is, exerting his power over this young girl. Wish he could run a sword through him like that other whoreson. Maybe yet. 

"Are these your things?" He asks him, and Sandor clambers to his feet to see. There set out on a table are his old armor and sword, never thought he'd be so glad of the sight. He nods to Alekyne, raising up his hands to be unshackled. He motions to one of the burned men that compose his guard to free him. He sees that bit of wariness in Alekyne's eyes to see him at his full height unfettered. Good, he should be afraid. 

"We'll leave you to bathe, Clegane. Your horse is in the stables. You report to Lady Sansa this morning to replace one of her guard." Alekyne leaves in a flourish, his five guardsmen following. 

First, he swallows all the wine and shovels the food offered down his gullet. Simple bread and stew but better than anything he'd had in weeks. He uses the water and soap to clear off the layer of grime on him, and he's still dirty. Will have to do. A fresh tunic and his old mail on him and he's starting to feel like a man again. Strapping on his sword, he unsheathes it like he's itched for, watching it cut the air, making his heart stir. Alekyne was smart to leave the room before he became an armed man again. He's half a mind to steal her away from him, but then he remembers how she declined him. Safe with Stannis, she thought, only after a fashion, he grimaces and sheathes his sword to stalk out into the morning with his helm under his arm.

Feels strange to not be bothered by all the unknown men now inhabiting the keep. He'll check on Stranger later, but first the little bird. Climbing the stairs up to her chambers, he spots the two guards at her door. This Florent definitely has her under watch.

One of them nods to him, heading off, and he comes to her door, giving it a soft knock. It’s still early, she may yet be asleep. He doesn't understand the uneasiness in his gut as he breathes hard, waiting for her. In the stillness of the early hour, he hears the rustling of silk and swears he can sense her just on the other side of the door before it swings open. And then, there she is. Her warm auburn hair, untouched from her sleep, falling around her sweet face looking up at him.

He hates that his gloves are on his hands from his eagerness to be back in his armor for he wishes he could take her hand like in the dungeon. Or run a hand through those locks, before he knows it he's stepped forward and his hand has reflexively risen, snagging a stray strand in the metal of his gauntlet. She gasps, likely feeling the snap of it from her hair. He steps back, nearing to apologize, his eyes spy down to find the little thread of copper there. He'll never remove it, he decides. 

"Leave us," he hears the little bird. Looking up, he sees her glare at the other guard, who's quick to say, "Lord Alekyne wishes for you to have two guards, my lady."

"Is Clegane not two men?" She says, smiling flatly.

"I am not to leave you alone with any man, my lady," he speaks uncertain, peering around.

"Do you not serve me?" She asks next. 

"Why yes, my lady, but Lord Alekyne..." He starts again, but Sansa interrupts, "You will leave, or you will die," she motions to him, and he starts to pull his sword.

The guard rushes to say, "I will leave, but Lord Alekyne will hear of this, my lady," and heads down the nearby stair. 

He lets his sword fall back into its sheath, surprised at the turn of events, and hears Sansa sigh in relief. He turns toward her, and the timidity he knows more from her seems to creep back into her as she fumbles with her hands. 

"Please come in, just leave the door," she moves to reenter her chamber. Well, there goes Florent's precious rules, he smirks.

"Can't guard you well from inside your room, and I have a feeling your lord will be after you quick. I've already had the pleasure of meeting him this morning." He relates with an arm resting on his pommel. 

"Lord Alekyne?" She turns back towards him, questioning brightly. She's so pretty, he can't help but look her all over. She’s better than sunshine after the dark hell he's been living, even all bundled up in her robe and night shift.

"Aye, the one," he says, and his scowl deepens remembering the bastard. "Seems to think if I'm yours, I'm also his."

"Oh," she ponders that, evidently not a part of her plan. 

"Dangerous game you're playing with a man like him. What'd you do to free me?" He asks, narrowing his eyes at her and placing a hand against the wall above her.

She steps back, hitting the wall, "Sandor, I just..." she starts, losing her words.

"Tell me now before he arrives." He's surprised the bastard’s not already here to accost him and the little bird.

"It was part of my agreement to marry him. It's not official until my family agrees to the match." She is almost pleading, believing she did the right thing and wanting to hear him confirm it. "He's not so bad, and I would've had to marry him anyway," she tries to convince him.

Hearing footsteps, he shushes her and turns, ready to draw his sword. The girl coming from the stair freezes when she sees him, scared out of her wits. Her handmaiden, he assumes, and relaxes, motioning for the girl to come.  Pointing her to the chamber, he says, "You know not to talk so openly, get dressed, and we'll see to my horse," he tells her.

She nods with a small smile, her eyes still wide from his questioning. "There's no master of whisperers here," she points out timidly, "Only the Red Woman, and she already knows too much." His brow knits at her remark, but he leaves her to her maidservant, standing guard just outside her door. They have all day till she must light the fires with that bloody lord.

Waiting to follow behind her, he's perplexed when she turns to him, extending out her hand. "Are you going to escort me to the stables, Clegane?" He already misses hearing his given name on her lips, but he grants her request, even if he has to slow his strides.

Arriving there, he heads to the back, finding him where he left him and worse for wear, poor beast.

"You can't get near him, little bird, but he needs to be taken care of," he tells her. He drops her arm and grabs a brush for his stallion. Entering the stall, Stranger nearly bites his other ear off, but he speaks to him softly, telling him he's a good boy and makes his way to his side without showing fear. What an amazing horse. He still marvels at his strength, combing over him. 

"I wish I had brought my sewing," Sansa says over the stall. 

He smirks, continuing his work, "Won’t be long. Will get him ready for a short turn in the yard." He really needs to be let loose, maybe he can take him through the city in the evening.  
After working him over, he nods to the girl as he retrieves his bridle and saddle. "Head on out to the yard, I won't be long," he tells Sansa who looks worriedly behind him at the horse.

Stranger tries to rear on him again, but he gets him clear of the stall and leads him out. He catches sight of her near the wall as he tries to calm Stranger a moment. She has a curious look on her face. Stepping into the stirrups, he swings up onto Stranger, who’s in a frenzy moving all about, nearly rearing again, before he allows the horse to trot excitedly around the yard. Taking several passes, he lets him canter for a few, seeing the girl smile at his display when he nears her. 

After another pass, Sandor turns the stallion back towards where the little bird is standing, and he sees Alekyne there, a strong hand on her shoulder. He kicks Stranger to rear, neighing loudly and drawing their attention. He then stampedes back, stopping just short of them before vaulting off. Stranger’s still clawing the ground next to him when he addresses the man, “Lord Florent,” and keeping his hand ready on his sword, he asks the little bird, “Lady Sansa, are you well? May I escort you back to your chambers?”

“Sansa, I forbid you,” Alekyne turns cold. “You must have two guards for your safety.” Stranger neighs wildly next to him, even drawing a wary gaze from the lord.

In that snippy but still polite tone she cultivates, Sansa says to the lord, “Sandor Clegane is my sworn shield, and he will see to my safety. Thank you, my lord,” Sansa curtsies, taking his arm.

The shock on Alekyne’s face is clear, like he truly thought Sansa would follow his every wish. “Understand, my lady, I started to order your bridal gifts, but I may have to postpone some items until you acquiesce,” he turns and leaves them, likely to complain to that red woman.

He leads Stranger back to his stall, taking off the bridle and saddle, telling the little bird to stay close. When he takes her arm again to get back to her chambers, he can tell she’s a bit shaken but staying strong.

He stops her to talk in the stables, much safer than the castle proper. He relates all the rules the Florent has in place for her, but he can tell she was not surprised. She seemed aware of his influence in her affairs. Yet, still she agreed to marry him for his sake, he grits his teeth and turns from her to grip a beam in the stable, digging his nails into it. She always belongs to another man.

He hears a sniffle and turns back. Sansa’s face is pulled tightly as she looks down at her hands. "Sansa?" he murmurs her name, shirking his gloves and coming toward her, offering his arm. She peeks at him, blushing a tinge as she takes his hand, squeezing part of it like it's all the comfort she can afford. "What is it? Did someone hurt you?" He asks, trying to root out what has her upset.

"No," she breathes heavily as though holding back tears. “Unless you count my betrothed.” She smiles sadly, reaching up to push back the loose locks hanging over her face. She steadies to relate whilst stroking his palm, "Lady Melisandre told me last evening that Winterfell was burned, and Bran and Rickon are thought to be dead." She raises up and looks into his eyes, a few tears streaking down her face, before spitefully adding, "And Theon did it." She's shaken to her core he can tell. If he remembers correctly, Theon was the Greyjoy ward. You’d think he was another son the way they acted, fucking squids _._ She looks back down and folds her other hand around his, too, whispering, "I don't want to cry." Then looking at him so confused, new tears brimming in her eyes, "But Sandor, it was in my vision, and you were there..."

A squire walks into the stable hall then, looking up surprised to see the two of them, innocent as it is. Frozen at first, the young man then tries to run, but Sandor is too quick. He grabs his back and pulls him around, aiming a dagger at his throat to threaten, "If you tell anyone what you saw or heard here, I'll slit your throat with this very dagger in the dead of night, boy,” he throws the sod to the ground roughly. “And I'll remember your sorry face."

Sansa's eyes are wide when he turns from the fool to find her by his side, but a small smile graces her lips and a look almost like pride. He swallows, letting her take his arm and return back to her chambers. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: Time Together

Truly as if an anvil had been pulled from off her, how the tension and fear had dissipated now that Sandor was freed. She had some measure of control over her life again it seemed. So relieved was she that he came straightway to her and to see his person restored. Still, seeing him again was overwhelming in other ways. His presence continues to intimidate her, wary she is of his unpredictable ire despite her near complete trust in the man. Even if he'd scoff at her for trusting anyone, she trusts him. He’s never lied to her.

The way he looked at her when first she pried her chamber door open brought her warmth as joy and relief filled her but grew unsettling as the silence lingered with his gaze that tingled her skin. He was nearly squinting to see her, the sun rising in her window behind her and his eyes still weak from the black cells. She thought for a moment he would touch her hair. Over the night, she had not been able to sleep for stress over whether he would truly be released and how little informed she was of the details. Also, the grief over her brothers dwelt with her through the night and the knife of Theon's betrayal, rendering her restless. It cannot be true! To think she only knows her mother and Robb still live from her family. 

Sandor had proven anew his loyalty to her, shirking Alekyne's command and intervening on her behalf. The man had nearly wrenched her arm – that coldness she first saw in him revived to threaten and bind her to his will. As though she cares about dresses more than being able to make her own choices. How dare he twist the agreement around to try and force her to acquiesce to his rules. Sandor had told her all about those. Reporting on her to him everyday! 

She had spent the rest of the day, secure in her room, bittersweet from the joys and sorrows she holds. She decided on a new embroidery project to honor her brothers. She had Merry, her handmaiden, bring food for both of them for midday and evening meals. He ate quickly and quietly across from her, facing the door and peering out of it at intervals. Still, it eased her greatly to spend these simple moments with him. Though Alekyne had avoided her in the evening, and she lit the fires with the princess, she doubted he would stay away long.

The next morning, she can tell it's Sandor's knock on the door even without his refrain, "Little bird," and her heart picks up it's pace. She does not understand the smile that now comes to her face, her anticipation a thrill through her as she asks him to come in. She had only saw him earlier when he admitted Merry, and they exchanged a nod. Whatever would her septa say, exchanging such informalities with a man? She's even slipped and called him by his given name a number of times now, and he had said hers. 

She peers up at him, now just inside her doorway, deciding such informalities being understandable between one and their trusted sworn shield. He clears his throat, asking, "Happier today, little bird?"

"Much now that you have been freed," she contentedly replies.

"Can't say I'm not happy to be out of that dark hell," he says with a glance around the room.

"Have you broken your fast?" She motions to the food left from her breakfast, and he stalks to the table. He is not one to leave food uneaten and takes a clear delight in it she never noted before. She only knew of his love for wine and hopes that thirst does not resurface.

"Stranger missed his exercise in the evening due to those fires you have to light," he says between cheese. He was curious but wary of the ritual she must perform, and she got the chance to introduce him to Shireen. "But I could use some, if you would allow it," he mentions, still leveled at her offerings.

She scrunches her brow confused. "Speak plainly," she says, and she can't help but grin, amused since it is not like him to not.

He snorts, looking at her and she knows they share the same thought. "I need to train, get my strength back." 

"There are few in the training yard due to most men are at the city walls, but there may be some guards," she says, then brighter, "And I will gladly accompany you." 

He turns to her, now finishing an apple, simply looking at her. Her smile falters from his strong gaze that she breaks it. Then, he speaks with sincerity, "A fine mistress I have." She is at a loss but thinks instead of what she needs to take with her. Merry had done her hair loosely in the northern style, but a ribbon would do if there's wind.

She walks by Sandor to get to her dressing cabinet, but he holds a hand out to her, halting her. She looks up to see a rather troubled expression on his face, a twitch in the burned corner of his mouth. He speaks in his raspy, deep tone, looking intently into her eyes, "I mean it, you are." His thumb comes under her chin as he adds, "I know I said you shouldn't have stuck out your neck for me, but no one would have done what you have for an old, scarred dog like me." She swallows, feeling like she's in new waters with him. Is this his gratitude? "Shouldn't have doubted you." He pulls away abruptly. She releases the breath she was unwittingly holding and tucks her head as she continues with her task.

Busying herself, she pulls out a ribbon to stuff in her small bag, eyeing the book from Shireen she grabs that and turns to retrieve her embroidery. He may be awhile yet, and she doesn't want to limit his training. "Ready?" He asks, holding his hand out to her at the door. What a routine they've already slipped in, she smiles, taking his arm as he escorts her to the yard. 

Noticing a little-used stone stair, she points to it for Sandor. He installs her there, helping her down with a careful hand. "I'll set my good sword here while I'm using the blunted blade," he explains, unstrapping his sword belt. She nods to him, pulling out her book, and can't help but peek around to see all the eyes on them as most of the men-at-arms stopped to stare. "If you need anything, little bird. Sansa?" He tries to catch her attention. 

She refocuses, finding his eyes again and trying to be quiet, "Yes, Sandor?" 

His expression is serious as he informs her, "If you need anything, raise your hand, and I'll be right there. I won't turn my back on you." She nods to him with a small smile, and he turns to ready himself, keeping her in his periphery. Many eyes follow him as the training continues for most, but she's unnerved at how many eyes stay on her. Like how she feels at feasts here as one of the few highborn women. It makes her not want to tear her eyes away from Sandor, wanting to know he's there. His hand was such a comfort in the stable, and she itches for its warm reassurance. Almost incognizant, she places her hand on his sword next to her. 

He picks out a sword, testing it and then stalks out, taking a place across from her. She recognizes a few of Alekyne's retainers move toward him, their swords held casually. One says something to him causing the others to laugh brashly. Sandor flashes his eyes at her and bares his teeth at the retainers. Oh no, his rage! Turning to his side, he strikes at the one who started it. One of the other men interrupts, challenging Sandor's sword. They go back and forth until Sandor's sword bears down on his, and the guard stumbles. She smiles to hear Sandor's harsh laughter as he returns to his stance. So fearsome he is.

She pulls her book out and creases it open to appear engaged as she sees a small group of the men sidle her direction. "Lady Sansa, how wonderful of you to join us," the knight of the group says as he stands in front of her with a smile. She can barely make out Sandor engaging with another of Alekyne's retainers.

"Here to see my sworn shield train, Ser Rolland," she answers plainly and watches behind him.

"My lady, would you care for a walk to the gardens," he says and reaches out his hand for hers. 

Distracted by him, she glances up to Ser Rolland and begins to say, "No thank you," but is interrupted by Sandor's painful cry. She jumps up, yelling, "Sandor!" Then remembering to yell, "Clegane," too. Ser Rolland moves to see what the commotion is, and she gasps to see him laid out in the dirt, dust wafting up around him. She crosses quickly to Sandor, but he's back up and dusting off by the time she’s near. He's picking up his sword when he notices her. "Little bird?" he looks confused.

"Are you alright?" She asks, worried.

"Yes," his scowl lifts, almost like he's amused. "Problem with your perch?" He glances over and narrows his eyes, extending his arm to her. He walks her back over, looking over Ser Rolland with a grimace.

"I'll take the lady for a walk now. Lady Sansa," Ser Rolland says to her and bows with a flourish, his palm extended to her. 

"No, you will not," Sandor takes his broad arm and pushes him to the side roughly. 

"Ser?" Ser Rolland asks, surprised. 

"Not a ser," Sandor says with bite, then takes her hands, and helps her back on the stair. She feels so small compared to him, his large hands supporting hers as she looks up at him, feeling relieved to have him there to deal with the presumptuous knight.

"Have everything you need?" He asks, his brows scrunched together in earnestness.

"Oh yes," she smiles, finding her book and patting his good sword still there beside her.

"Hound?" Ser Rolland harshly calls, having retrieved a blunted blade. As Sandor turns, she swears he's smirking as he antagonizes him, "You only dare because I'm weakened from the black cells, fool.” He meets the knight’s blade, continuing, "Hate to disappoint you," he pushes, scraping his sword down the other. Ser Rolland sidesteps and is quick to land another blow that Sandor barely misses. Circling each other, Sandor seems intent to keep her in his sights, and Ser Rolland takes advantage of a momentary glance to attempt to disarm him as they continue to spar. Sansa loves how Sandor comes alive when fighting, his eyes shining as he reacts and attacks in kind. He continues to train, and she finally finds a story interesting enough to distract her. Still, she smiles and looks up every time she hears his menacing laughter roaring through the yard, sometimes catching his eye.

She remains composed with her book as he stalks over and sprawls out on the stair next to her panting, sweat drenching his hair. Her eyes glance over to see his unscarred half, looking tired but satisfied. 

"Ready for the midday meal?" She asks, setting her book in her bag. She'll work on her embroidery this afternoon. 

"Could use some wine," he says, causing her to stiffen. She remembers how he was drunk. 

Summoning her courage, she ventures, "I would ask that you drink less wine than you are wont before." The pause after her words is strangling her, and she's almost waiting for him to laugh at her as he did his foes earlier. Looking at her hands, she feels his gaze studying her, and her breath comes harder. "Please," she murmurs, daring to look into his eyes that seem to bare her soul to him. Only the Red Woman's eyes read deeper.

“Aye,” is the only answer she gets as he turns away and stands up, strapping on his sword belt. She waits for his hands held out to her and takes them to stand, enjoying what reassurance they carry for just a moment even through the thick leather. He carries her possessions for her as he leads her back to her chambers. The smell of him is heightened by his exercise, intense as his manner is to her, and she cannot help but find it overwhelming though not unpleasant.

“Thank you, Merry,” Sansa smiles to her handmaiden as she sees the meal is already prepared.

“I must wash up,” Sandor points out as he hesitates to sit with her.

“If you wish,” she nods, “ I will wait for you.” He nods, almost uncomfortably, before stalking out of her room, instructing Merry to bar the door. She picks up her embroidery and has a cup of watered wine as she waits. It’s not long until Sandor returns and she dismisses Merry. Taking the chair facing the door, he points to her work with the spoon he’s picked up, “What’s that there?”

She fans it out on her lap for him to see, she’s got only the outline yet but it’s clearly a wolf’s head. “I’ve started this in memory of Bran, it’s his direwolf, Summer. Perhaps I will complete them all for those lost, now that I’m not a traitor’s daughter.”

“Going to include your wolf?” he asks, starting to spoon his soup.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admits, setting it aside to join Sandor in their meal. How had she not? The image of Lady rushes to her mind, she remembers her exactly, her light fur and streaks of grey, even her happy smile for her with her tongue hanging out. How wonderful an idea to finish all of the wolves even. “I should. I wonder what I will do for Father?” she circles her spoon in her dish.

Sandor doesn’t answer, intent on his meal. He only looks up to tear some bread to scarf down. She just looks at him, slightly disappointed, but what could she expect from the Hound’s company?

“Eat, little bird,” he gestures toward her bowl. She sighs, setting her hand down on the table. “I’ll return to my post then.” He gets up, finished, and she doesn’t know why it seizes her to know he’d rather stand outside her door than be here with her.

“Sandor, can you not guard me from in here? There is no present danger,” she hates the pleading tone in her request.

He scowls, that strange, confused look to him as he regards her warily. “There will be talk if you keep your guard in your chamber, Lady Sansa,” he says pointedly.

“You are my sworn shield,” she takes a deep breath, “And my friend. Forgive me if your presence is a comfort after being imprisoned for so long.” Even sitting on the steps this morning as he trained was more pleasant than all the days under Joffrey’s reign. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there, so she lifts her chin to speak, “Of course, if my company is burdensome, you may go and not bear it.”

He retakes his seat, scowling at the door. “If I stay, you finish that soup, girl,” he says curtly.

“Do not call me girl,” she says and narrows her eyes at him. He turns to her, the glint of fury in his eyes is sobering enough to halt any further provocation on her part. She gasps as his hand finds hers, lifting it to the spoon.

“Yes, my lady,” he spits the words, “Now your soup.” She’s surprised his hand does not let go, and he guides the filled spoon carefully to her lips. Her heartbeat comes faster as her mouth opens for the soup, his eyes trained on hers. The act unnerves her in its intimacy, especially with the slight danger inherent in his current state. She does not feel like a sick child being fed though his concern is apparent but something else. She will not be afraid of him, she decided that a long while ago now, and straightens her posture in her drawn-upon boldness, tensing her hand against his as evidence of her will.

He releases her hand to manage herself, and she continues eating, knowing he would be quick to intervene. She’s surprised he mentions, “Speaking of your father, you should’ve traded for his sword over me. Lannisters still had it, was in the White Sword Tower last.”

“I will bring that to the attention of my brother when he arrives,” she says with a smile. “Thank you.” It is Robb’s sword by right, surely it would be returned to her family.

“We better hope he joins Stannis, or the siege could kill us. I don’t expect to survive another,” he smirks, picking at his teeth, leaned back in his chair.

“Ser Davos, the King’s Hand, went to treat with my brother. He is fair. I cannot know the details, but I imagine Robb will support Stannis as our lord father did,” she says, providing her conclusions.

“Are there not any ladies in the court you can spend your days with?” He asks, making her look up from her soup bowl with a pinched brow.

“There’s only Princess Shireen, who you met briefly at the temple, and Queen Selyse, who I have never met actually. Lady Melisandre, of course, but I’ve only seen her when summoned.” He snorts with a smirk at the mention of the priestess. “No one else has arrived due to the siege, and much of the court has been relegated to the dungeons or burned or left prior to the battle. I will ask if the princess would like to meet in the library later this week. She’s not allowed out much due to her appearance.”

“Yes, greyscale, you said."

“Indeed, the poor girl,” she says with a sigh. “She isn’t even allowed at feasts.” Sandor looks up defensively, and she hopes what she said hasn’t upset him too terribly. “Sorry,” she treads more carefully, “I can’t imagine what it must be like.”

“To have half your face scarred,” he says, his eyes heavy on hers and seething with a bitterness that presses down on her. Is there nothing she could say to soothe this old wound of his? She remembers how his scars felt under her hands, despite the blood and wetness, the leathery, taut skin, raised and pocked in places. Her eyes had shifted to look upon them, but she quickly stops herself out of fear for his mood to darken further.

“Sandor, don’t be angry,” she implores, looking at him wide-eyed. She turns her bowl to him, “I finished my soup,” she smiles.

“It’s about you then,” he says with disdain, but the heaviness of his tone has dissolved and the bite is harmless. She reaches out her hand with a smile, willing him to be happy, to at least enjoy the passing pleasantness before the siege gets worse or the war turns against their favor.

He gives her that strange, wary look again as he eyes her outstretched hand, but at the edges of his gaze curiosity bleeds in. His large paw moves to cover hers though he doesn’t settle to hold it. He takes her hand in his and tenderly glides his rough thumb over it, watching her intently. Not satisfied, his long fingers extend up her forearm, pushing back her sleeve. Pulling her closer to him, Sandor turns over her arm, bowing to place his lips on the silky flesh below her wrist, sending a shiver through her and causing a slight gasp as her breath becomes heavy.

Her shock stills any conscious reaction as he lets go gently, standing, and tells her warmly, “I’ll be right outside the door.” He hesitates a moment, and his eyes shift to her arm, still upturned. His fingertips return to leave a whisper of a caress on the soft inside of her arm before he’s walked out, her door closed.

Scrambling to understand, she pulls her arm close to her. Her fingers find the spots he touched, and she gingerly traces them. As much as she knows she should be worried as with Lewys, it’s different. She wants to sink into this feeling, this thrill he inspires, and his touch was so sensitive, urgent but testing. She blinks, taking account of herself sitting here dumbstruck and tracing her arm. Shaking her head as though ridding herself of a strange dream, she reaches for her embroidery. She has work to do. Maybe Sandor would like to have a wolf sewn, it’s only fitting.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV: Day with Shireen

Sandor had meant to warn her, push away her new familiarity with him he didn't understand, but her smiles only seemed sweeter in the days that followed. No woman's ever looked at him like that, you'd think he was one of her buggering knights. His blood will still heat when he thinks of that perfect blush and her shy eyes when she asked him to join her for their evening meal a little while after he was stupid enough to touch her. It was but a sweet taste, and he has longed to run his hands all over her just so, pressing his lips against every soft spot he could find. There would be many, he smirks to himself. She would be deliciously soft under all that silk, so perfect. 

"Sandor," he hears her sing as her handmaiden opens the door. She should have more handmaidens than this one, probably Melisandre's eyes and ears.

He just nods to her, scowl still in place, though he hates seeing her eyes dim when she doesn't get the reaction she wants. Like he's going to start bloody smiling like her all the time. Silly, little bird.

"Well, I'm ready to see the princess," she says.

He lifts his arm for her and asks, "Library?" 

"Yes, Sandor," she eases her hand up into the crook of his arm over the metal. 

On their way, Sansa brings her other hand up to rest on hers on his arm. "Must you always wear armor? It must be so uncomfortable, how hard it is," she remarks. 

"Must be ready for anything, mistress," he answers her, wanting to curse. What is she playing at? He looks down to notice her looking over his gauntlet peculiarly. He knows she's not scared of him anymore though wary at times, but still, how could she have wanted it? She didn't resist, even submitted to his attentions. Hells, if Merry had seen him...he must be more careful or he'll be back in the dungeons or freezing his balls off at the Wall.

Opening the door to the library for her, he's surprised she doesn't let go, "Sandor, won't you join us?" He looks at her confused but knowing better than to refuse, he enters with her. 

"Princess?" Sansa inquires, releasing him to search around the dusty room. 

He stays near the door, eying a precariously high stack of books on the table. He's about to rearrange them when he hears the other girl exclaim, "Lady Sansa!" The princess comes out of a tapestried window seat with a book about the size of her. 

"Princess Shireen," Sansa performs one of her graceful curtsies. Then she extends a hand toward him, "Sandor Clegane, my sworn shield, will join us if it please you."

It's odd to him the way Shireen brightens at the suggestion, and he simply deepens his scowl. What's wrong with these maidens? "Of course Clegane may," Shireen smiles. Little bird must've counseled her to not call him ser.

Sandor takes his ill-fitted seat, making sure he's facing the entrance, and a servant brings in the teapot, pouring into the delicate cups. 

"I requested lemoncakes, but with the siege they don’t have all the ingredients I was told, princess," Sansa smiles, turning to him, too, with a shy glance. "There are some cheeses, cured meat and bread, if you are hungry," and he knows she did this as much for him as the precious princess.

"Oh yes," the princess takes one of those offered.

"How do you find the mint tea, Sandor?" She glances again, looking nearly giddy.

"Haven't bloody tasted it yet." He snatches up the fine cup, her eyes widening at his response. The princess giggles next to them.

"Aren't you the Hound? Sansa said you won the Hand's Tourney." The girl looks at him curious and waiting.

"Aye, did she tell you her Knight of Flowers handed it to me after his own foolishness near to killed him?" He takes what cheese is offered next and sends the little bird a scowl as she watches him. He was the real fool, stretching out his neck, so she wouldn't have to see his brother butcher her favored knight. Guess it paid off in the end, now that he made it alive from Stannis's victory. Too bad there's no pay.

The princess gasps at his story, "No, she did not. The Knight of Flowers, Sansa?" The princess looks to her. 

"Ser Loras Tyrell. He is not my knight though." She sends him a reproving glare. She is about to continue when he sneers, "You sure kept that rose awhile to seem so indifferent now."

"A rose?" The princess asks with wonderment.

"Yes, just a silly token," Sansa admits, flustered. Then she can explain, "Ser Loras was being attacked by the Mountain after he bested him in the joust. Sandor intervened or else Ser Loras surely would have died." 

"And you saw all of this?" Shireen is amazed, looking at the little bird. 

Breaking in, he says matter-of-fact to the wide-eyed princess, "The buggering fool rode a mare in heat. My brother's courser was more of a mind to mount her than ride her down. The bastard cut his horse's head clear off, then attempted to do the same to her knight."

Aghast, Shireen's shock and confusion is clear as she wonders, "Brother? The Mountain?"

"Aye. Maybe one day I'll put a sword through his heart, and that'll be the end of it." He turns to Sansa who seems to find sipping her tea particularly interesting. 

"And Ser Loras knew about the mare?" Shireen questions. "A knight would do such a thing?" He snorts, laughing hard and bitter at these maidens, kept safe from the world, their heads filled with songs.

"Yes, Shireen," Sansa turns to the princess and places her hand near her on the table. "Knights I've found do not take their vows in earnest. Ser Loras played this trick, and it nearly cost him his life at the hands of another knight with no honor." He scoffs at her pretty words, but at least she tells it true. Sansa continues, quietly, "Sandor once told me, knights are for killing. And it's true. Even the Kingsguard, the finest knights of the realm, wouldn't stop to question a King's wish, even if it went against their vows." The gravity of her meaning settles as Shireen appears to comprehend.

"And you never took the vows, Sandor?" Shireen looks over to him.

He shakes his head, "Only made one vow, and that's to her," he nods to Sansa. "Even if I was drunk, I'll still follow it." Sansa's mouth falls open at his statement.

"Why are you known as the Hound?" Shireen asks next, her expression one of confusion trying to follow them.

"My grandfather was a kennelmaster." 

"Oh,” then she lights up likely with another question, “Does your sword have a name?"

"Only cunts name their swords," he utters a brash laugh, hoping that's the end of her questioning.

"Sandor Clegane," Sansa chides him, mouthing “the princess," her eyes wide and clearly appalled at his language.

"You asked me to sit here, and hells, if I won't honey my words for your maiden ears," he retorts, gesturing to both of them.

"I guess I'll have to ask my father what that means," Shireen states, and his jaw falls before he turns to see the mirth on the little sprite's face. 

Still, he warns, "Do that and I'll be back in the black cells and won't take so kindly to you then."

She smiles, "Don't fret," those rough scars to her face. It would be harder to be a woman like this, he thinks for the first time. World's not kind to the other sex as it is. The little bird's more than a beauty by comparison but has her own share of problems from its draw. The way men look at her makes him want to leave bodies behind everywhere he takes her. Though he's no better with his lust. He finds his eyes drawn to her creamy white neck and the sliver of skin showing until it reaches her bosom. Her hand reaches up to her chest as a flush covers her skin from his gaze, and he raises his eyes to find her own on him. Her mouth parts, and he stands abruptly, distracting himself by advancing to the window. 

He faintly hears the girls begin discussing some Targaryen history that he soon tunes out.  "Would you like the last piece, Sandor?" Sansa calls to him, and he turns to see her confused look as she lifts the plate toward him.

He finds his scowl soften slightly as he says, "You have it, little bird," then becoming concerned with their over-familiarity in front of the princess. The girl seems to lack any hint of malice though.

“Sandor, Shireen wanted to ask you something?” Sansa smiles hopefully and this worries him.

“Aye,” he says and walks over from the window.

“I wanted to ask how you got your scars.” Shireen looks down then peeks back up at him, nervous.

“No,” he simply answers heading back, not caring if the princess feels crestfallen. She has food, that’s more than most children can say in King’s Landing. Maybe the little bird is disappointed, but he only told her at a moment of weakness. At least he knows she isn’t spewing it around.

He watches over them and follows them back to Sansa's chambers, standing guard with the princess's guardsman as they read. Sansa shows her the embroidery work she's doing, and it's good to see her happy. 

As dusk approaches, he escorts the girls to the keep temple. Luckily, Sansa is happy enough to hold her friend's arm, telling her stories of her other siblings. Taking his place in a dark corner of the former sept, he keeps his eyes trained on his charge as he waits.

Startled, he nearly draws his sword when he hears the whisper of that red woman as she makes herself known to him out of nowhere. Her cat-like smile surveys him and then she comes closer, mentioning playfully, "You seem to have a way with maidens," glancing toward the girls knelt before the flames. His gut turns empty and churns at her concealed threat. He turns to curse her, but she's already gliding away. Still, he can see the outline of her rotund belly. What in seven hells? He watches until she disappears before turning to catch Sansa's worried face. She's right to worry. He tries to give her a reassuring nod, but he can't help but think he puts her in more danger now.

In the next moment, he clenches his fist to see Alekyne come and kneel beside the little bird, reciting his load of shit to the fire god. It's nearly too much when he grabs her hand.

Once complete, it's clear Alekyne intends to escort her back. He keeps a close trail in front of Alekyne's guards, even if the man himself pretends he's not there. She's like ice, rigid in her step next to him, only courtesies on her lips. Still, he listens to make out Alekyne's comments, "Davos's messenger has arrived...betrothal has not been agreed to...marches on Casterly Rock as we speak...off to rally forces at the King's Gate." Maybe the whoreson will be out of his hair soon. 

Stopping at her chamber door, Alekyne takes Sansa's hand in his. "Lady Melisandre will see to your safety while I am away." She nods, and he notes the tremble in her outstretched arm. "This is how you would leave me, my lady, without a word." One of Alekyne's hands possessively runs up her arm, yanking her closer to him as his lips smile and her head falls back. Sandor's blood is pumping, his hand gripping his sword, watching Sansa treated thus. 

"You will be missed, my lord," Sansa says in her polite tone.

Alekyne continues, "It may be more than a moon's turn until I see your pretty face again. Remember you agreed to this marriage, you will be mine."

He hears her whimper, and his sword is out, as well as five others pointed at him. "Do not harm my lady," he seethes, feeling a surge of aggression overtake him. "Unhand her!"

"Call down your dog," Alekyne says to Sansa. "All I ask is a kiss from my betrothed before I depart for battle." 

"It's alright, Sandor," she looks back at him with drooping eyes, resigned to her fate. He partly sheathes his sword and grinds his teeth to see her reach up on tiptoe to find the man's cheek. Of course that doesn't sate Alekyne who seems to take perverse delight in usurping her innocence. The man thrusts his hands into her hair, and Sandor must look away from the hard kiss he plants on her mouth. 

"So beautiful," he hears Alekyne speak once he's done, making him seize up inside to have him touch her this way. No man should. Damn him for ever trying the night the sky turned red when he came to her chamber escaping the flames. This man would finish what he started to take and call it his right.

Daring to look back, he sees a slack Sansa, her shoulders slumped, Alekyne rubbing his hands over them for a moment until he lets go. Shooting Sandor what he probably considers a threatening glare, Alekyne marches in front of him and down the stair out of sight. His host of guards, likely for this very performance, follow him out. 

Approaching Sansa, she seems empty, like a shell, the bird inside has flown off and left her lifeless body standing here. She flinches slightly as he cups her elbow, his other arm supporting her back as he nearly carries her into her chamber towards her bed.

"Rest, little bird," he urges, but instead she turns into him.

"Oh, Sandor," she desperately whimpers, looking up at him. The life is coming back to her as water surges in her eyes, making the blue magnified. She then presses herself against him, gripping his sides, the side of her face laid on his chest as she sobs. He shirks his gloves onto her bed and holds her there, running his hands through her locks. Not knowing why but somehow it pacifies her until she's not shuddering with each wave of suffering but still clings.

"I should've killed them," he says in a faint rasp, looking down at her sweet head against him. She moves back, pulling his hands into her own and laying them high on her chest. 

"It would only have brought trouble. I can't lose you again. I did agree to marry him, but I don't know if I can say the words. He's no better than Joffrey." She looks down, her hands covering his. His mind is starting to race, making plans, once the siege breaks he could take her away, they would be fugitives but freer. No one would hurt her again, and she will never be that Florent's. 

He moves his hands to her shoulders gently, looking over his little bird. She looks up at him so open and intent, and he reassures her, "I'm here, it will be fine," and her lips form a small smile. "Now to bed with you," he lets go, turning to see that nosy handmaiden at the door. 

"Look after your lady," he says to her, and startled, she rushes to Sansa's side. "Keep your door barred," he instructs her before taking his place outside, not leaving until he sees her security set to rights.

Once set, Sansa comes to the door as the girl is leaving, "Your gloves, Sandor," she sweetly smiles, handing them to him. Her hand brushes his more than necessary in the exchange as a little blush blooms over her features, and she quickly retreats behind the door. What was that? He smirks at her innocent ways, and then he heads out into the night, his mind brewing on what must be done. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

The castle was awash with news of the sudden departure of the bulk of the Lannister forces the following week. From what Sansa had gathered, they took off in an unorganized dash in the early morning. The Tyrell's remain under a barrage of defensive attacks dealt out by Stannis in an intensified effort. Sansa had watched with Shireen who was intent on seeing what she could from the Red Keep's outer battlement. Sandor stayed close at hand with his accustomed scowl. By the end of the day, the Tyrell's drew back further from the gates.

The question nagged at her mind though. Was there some sort of betrayal or disagreement with the Tyrell's to lead to such a bizarre turn of events? She did not know, but wondered. Such knowledge is probably better being without if it is not common. Shireen was eager to puzzle it out, and she tried to gently dissuade her, though she doubts she did. Sandor refused to comment, seeming puzzled himself why they would turn away at a potentially successful siege.

That next morning she had accompanied Sandor to training and was waiting for him to start their midday meal, a soup becoming more and more broth. His sharp knock at the door accompanies his refrain, "Little bird, I'm clean," bringing a smile to her lips at she sets down the latest book Shireen has her reading. 

She nods to Merry, "Please get the door. That will be all." The girl moves accordingly, but she has remained around more closely as of late, even when dismissed and especially at her meals with Sandor. Entering, Sandor smirks at her with a hint of mischief as he makes his way to the table, clanking with each step. His hair still damp lays haphazard as though he's wrung himself like a dog. Despite his disheveled state, her eyes feel ensnared to the smidgen of light in his as her gaze follows him, and her lips curl into a true smile. Training always seems to raise his spirits, and she looks forward to these days. 

Seeing a loose strap on his breastplate, she stands despite the chair he’s already pulled out to sit in, and comes to him. "Sandor, your armor," she playfully notes and reaches for it. He pulls back, attempting to contort his large fingers to better attach it. "Just let me," she protests, nearing him again. He huffs, dropping his hands.

Concentrating on the mechanism, her slim fingers deftly reattach it. "There," she lays her hand on the metal. With a glance up at him, her smile suspends on her features under the intensity penetrating her from his gaze. Her hand starts to move up on instinct, but his covers it, stopping its course with a languorous hold that seems to caress each finger as if committing them to memory. His exhaled hum thrums through her, and she closes her eyes at the pleasant sensation. It feels as though he has more than her hand, like her beating heart is there in his grip and she can't put a halt to it, only wants the feeling he places in her to stretch on out of time.

"Sandor," she breathes out his name, uncertain, opening her eyes. That slight smirk returns to his face, and he takes her hand off his chest, keeping it in his. His other hand comes to her back as he leads her over to her chair. Her smile brightens at his thoughtfulness. As she takes her seat, Sansa looks up at him and smiles, "Thank you." 

She holds her spoon, waiting for him to take his seat. Once there, he relates before starting his soup, "Men are preparing to follow the Tyrell's. Said it appears the army may leave in the morning."

"Well, that is good news," Sansa relates, hoping to have better meals soon. If she's having this, is there anything in all of Flea Bottom to eat? Spying Merry at edge of the doorway, she notes quietly to Sandor, "She's very attentive." 

"Aye."

Looking out the window, she says wistfully, "Wish I still had Shae with me." 

"She was a feisty one, even saw her threaten a handmaid for you," he laughs. 

"Any chance I could find another?" she asks.

"With coin, you could find another whore wants to serve the keep," he says, upsetting her.

"Shae was more than that," she glumly speaks to her soup. 

"Don't be naive," he says, and it stings slightly.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you coin," she replies frigid. "All I have of worth are my jewels." The question of payment had in fact weighed on her lately, wishing she could do more for him. Still, she’s not above using it to remind him of their association. “If you have need of anything…” He holds his hand up, a calm “Shh” emanating from him and stopping her.

His mouth purses as he surveys her. "Girl, get us some wine," he calls out to Merry who scuttles away. 

"Sansa," he starts, reaching across the table. Before he can expand, a charming, feminine voice sounds from the door, "Lady Sansa, I hope I've found you at a good time." She tenses, seizing up at that voice and the alarming person it belongs to. 

"Lady Melisandre," she stands and curtsies as though on cue, her polite and docile exterior sliding into place. "To what do I owe the honor?" Sandor stands next to her, sliding on his gloves as he moves toward the door.

"I come bearing gifts," she sweeps into her chamber with two women, both carrying a profuse amount of textiles. Sandor passes her as he exits to stand at the entrance, looking terribly disgruntled.

"As Florent is on the walls, I will see you are properly arrayed," Melisandre smiles the most carefree she's seen her as though awfully amused with something. "Well," she claps her hands once turning to the door. "Only for women's eyes," she playfully says to Sandor as she moves to close the door.

He halts her with one hand, looking to Sansa, "My lady?" 

"It's alright, Clegane," she nods to him, feeling a flush warm her. It would be embarrassing to have him attend as she disrobed to be measured for all manner of garments. 

The seamstress came prepared with a few items for her to try on and pin. The dresses are similar to her current wardrobe but darker colors and a more mature fit. 

"I have need of shifts and smallclothes as well, my lady," she brings up, and Melisandre nods to the seamstress who pulls out some thin white material. It is wonderfully fine and soft but when it flows over her she gasps at the sheerness of it. 

"That will do, a dozen each," Melisandre smiles to the woman. Sansa’s eyes go wide at the amount. She can't possibly wear this. Melisandre continues, "You are to be married Sansa. You will lose your shy maidenly virtue, dear child," she trains her amused eyes at her, looking her over. "And you have a beautiful figure. What has your mother told you of the marriage bed?" 

Tensing further, Sansa feels too exposed to the woman, and it grates on her how she's treating her as entertainment. She tries to dismiss politely, "I'm sure she will see to it when she arrives." 

"Don't worry, I will make sure you are prepared," Melisandre pats her shoulder. It would seem sincere if she didn't mistrust her completely.

"Any colors, you prefer?" Melisandre asks her.

"White and gray," she answers, wanting something in her house colors.

"She will have a dress in each," she informs the seamstress. "And hmm..." she considers, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Show me silver and red." The seamstress lays a brocade on Sansa’s shoulder with silver trimmings. 

"No deeper red and white," she snips. 

"There's velvet," the seamstress pulls out, "and this silk." She lays them on her. The silk is luminous and rich and dare if she doesn't think it's wondrous. Not for her surely though, Sansa thinks.

Melisandre takes the woman aside, whispering to her. Perhaps she wants the wedding dress to be a surprise, she ponders, or they're discussing cost. She's trying to remember Florent's colors but can’t. She's a bit disappointed in all the black, gold, and red Melisandre is choosing to dress her in. She’ll look like a Lannister. At least she’ll have a dress in white and a dress in gray, she’ll wear one of them everyday she can, perhaps she can even add some of her own embroidery to one.

“Sansa,” Melisandre turns to her, “I can call you simply Sansa?” Her brow rises.

She nods, “Yes, my lady,” as though she could say no.

“Is there anything else you will need?” Melisandre asks.

“I suppose Lord Florent will provide the jewels,” she timidly says.

“Of course,” her sly smile answers.

“I would ask for a woolen dress in case I must travel,” she asks. All of hers from home are outgrown.

“We will consider that at a later time,” Melisandre quickly responds with a hint of steel in her tone. Suppose she will not be traveling with her approval any time soon.

“Thank you, my lady,” she says and curtsies slightly.

“Then I will take my leave,” Melisandre says, then tells the seamstress, “Follow my instructions,” and leads the way to the door. Sansa slips behind her screen to get into her dress.

Sandor knocks after their departure, and she answers loudly, “Wait.” She gets back into her dress, not able to cinch it as tightly as Merry, and comes to the door.

Opening it, she peeks out at him, “Sandor?”

His armor creaks as he turns after eying the passageway. “Okay, little bird?” His concerned eyes fall on her, and she smiles.

“Yes,” she looks up at him. He nods, backing away, and she rushes to find something to keep his attention. “I need to speak with you about something. It is better now before Merry returns.”

Sandor scowls, shaking his head, “How many times must I say it’s not safe?” She looks down, disappointed. “After the fires. There’s a full moon.” She looks up at him perplexed but nods quickly, retiring to her room.

Her mind is in turmoil the rest of the afternoon and early evening, contemplating how best to approach the subject. She doesn’t rightly understand what has occurred is the problem. Every time she tries to put it into words, _When you touch me, Sandor…_ she can hear him scoffing. Will he even know himself? Surely, he must. If only her mother were here, but she would be appalled at her familiarity with the Lannister Hound.

She takes her left forearm in hand, shirking the flowing sleeve, and traces the soft skin up to her wrist. He had kissed her there once, it must mean something. He has been more cautious of late, but once when they were returning from the temple, it was particularly dark, the moon shrouded in clouds. He pulled the glove off his free hand, and she felt his hand run over her palm quickly before seizing the flesh of her arm wrapped around his. She remembered distinctly how she had shuddered, her slight hand trying to find his wrist. “Sansa,” he had murmured her name in confused wonder as he took her hand. He held her hand so gently there on his gauntlet until they reached the holdfast. An ease developed in him after that night that soothed her, and she was happy for it. Still, she wanted to know what it all meant.

She nearly spilled the wine Merry finally retrieved over the evening meal. Shireen had come by to sup with her before the temple but insisted Sandor not be put out. Shireen admitted that she allowed her guard now to share the midday meal if she wasn’t already engaged. Sansa had nearly knocked her cup over then, appalled at the impropriety she has engendered in her young friend.

After lighting the fires at the temple and repeating quickly the incantations she was taught, Sansa retires early, saying goodnight to Shireen, happy not to see Alekyne at the temple anymore, for now. Outside Sandor holds her elbow directing her away from the serpentine steps and toward the godswood. He stays to the shadows, stopping her once to let someone pass. Traversing the godswood is difficult and slow-going as she has to step over burnt branches and vines.

“Some life is returning,” he points out the buds on a vine encircling a bench visible in the moonlight. A bit of dusk still lingers. It’s suddenly familiar to her, did she meet Dontos here?

“I found out why you came here in the night,” he says, taking a seat. “That fool.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t have told you. Not then.”

“You shouldn’t have let yourself be alone with him. I hate your lies."

“I don’t lie now,” she defends, aghast as his statement. He doesn’t answer, so she reiterates, “I would never lie to you again, Sandor,” and tentatively lowers next to him. His silent, brooding countenance has her wary.

“Sandor, there’s something I want to speak to you concerning,” she says unsure, starting to tremble with apprehension, on how to detail her question. Maybe this isn't the right time.

“Spare me your pretty words. What is it?”

“What’s wrong?” She reaches out her hand to him, the other going up into her hair, pulling it loose in distress. She doesn’t care about getting this out, she only doesn’t want him angry at her in the process or she’s sure to fail.

“Little bird,” his gloves come off, and he takes her little hand in both of his. She watches in wonder at his gentleness, only to be overwhelmed when his rough fingers stretch up her soft flesh, engulfing her wrist. “You must see that we must leave after the army goes and before Florent returns.”

“Sandor,” she gasps as he pulls her into his lap in one swift motion. She finds answering with any reason difficult with this new contact, his broad arm like a tree branch around her, keeping her upright though she shies at feeling his hand along her thigh, holding her against him. His other hand has found it’s way into her loosened hair, and she watches his eyes look her over with intensity.

“Your dress,” he says almost absent-minded, and she looks down to see it coming apart. Oh no, she didn’t have Merry help her re-cinch it! The tops of her breasts are clearly visible straining against her binding where the wrap of the dress has loosened from his actions. She shrilly intakes air, trying to extricate herself from his grasp, becoming urgent as his hand begins to descend from her hair.

Freeing herself, she falls from his lap and pulls herself up. Sandor reaches to help her, but she bats away his hands and turns around. Redoing the ties on her dress, she's panting as she says, “I’m sorry, Sandor, it was loose from the fitting earlier.”

He laughs easily, “Like I’m going to complain about your dress coming off while you’re in my lap.”

“It didn’t come off,” she says, defensive, but feels herself warm at the implication. She’s suddenly giddy with the thought she’d been sitting on his knee with his arms around her. He must’ve known her worries. Maybe she could talk to him now.

He mumbles something to himself then that she doesn’t hear but arises suddenly and sprints off leaving her there. Her jaw slack, she turns back to the bench, righting her belt. Not even a minute passes until she hears his steps return, toting a small person. Pinning their arms and with a handkerchief in their mouth, it’s not until he comes closer she recognizes Merry.

“Caught her spying,” he says.

“What do we do?” she wonders aloud. If Sandor hadn’t caught her, she would’ve gone straight to Melisandre likely. It’s not even Sandor’s fault about her dress.

She’s wringing her hands when Sandor gives her a certain look, saying, “Sorry, little bird.” She knows what that means.

“Can’t we give her coin? You can’t,” she argues, and Merry starts struggling.

“Turn away,” Sandor tells her.

“You are my sworn shield,” she desperately says to him.

“And I vowed to keep you safe, not follow your every whim,” he says, giving her a hard stare.

“Then do it,” she says, resolute, not turning away like he said.

“Alright,” Sandor exhales, pulling his dagger, he places it at her chest and thrusts quickly to the hilt. “That’s where the heart is, Sansa.” She watches as the life leaves her handmaiden. Such a pity, she feels overwhelmed. It’s somehow ten times worse than Lewys. He wipes the blade on Merry’s shift and lets her fall to the ground, tugging her out of sight.

She’s shaking when Sandor takes her hand, and she marvels at how still he is, unaffected. All her anxieties before feel in poor taste now that Merry has met her end. Perhaps she should ask her handmaiden to know better how to broach this subject with him. His hand comes up to her cheek, brushing over the bone there with his thumb, and she leans into his forefingers along her neck. He gently tilts her face up to meet his eyes. At this she shifts to kiss his palm. Returning his gaze again, his eyes look on her with softness and awe, and he moves to wrap his arms around her, lowering to kiss her forehead.

They stay like this for a few minutes in the moonlight, finding a pleasant solace. Sandor brushes his hand down through her hair before pulling back slightly. He lets her know, “Need to get you back to your chambers. I’ll come back and get her out of the keep. Exercising Stranger or something, then I’ll procure you a new handmaiden. One like Shae, right?” He finds it in him to smirk, but she’s still too shaken and only nods. He leads her back to her chambers, unsettled by the night’s events.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV

On guard for the little bird, Sandor mulls over again the sight of Melisandre earlier that week, her belly no longer round. Can't have a babe in less than a moon's turn. Sansa's new handmaiden comes up to him, swaying her hips to interrupt his thoughts. Why the fuck did he actually pick her up a whore, like Shae, and from Dorne of all places? He does know his way around the Street of Silk better than any other place to procure a girl with coin on the quick.

"Out with it," he says as she looks at his chest in front of him.

She says, "I asked m'lady that if she wanted, for a few extra coin, I'd keep her shield happy," ending with a little peeking smile at him.

He sneers down at the woman, disbelieving her audacity to say such to his Sansa. He's really regretting his choice now, but it couldn't be helped. That other girl had gone too far, maybe even heard his plan to steal the little bird away, and this one better not cross a line. "What the fuck!" He yells at her.

Stepping back, the whore says, "She said to ask you what you wanted, ser," holding her arms to her chest in fear.

"I am no ser," he says, baring his teeth. "Fuck off, you bloody fool." With that, she scampers away in a hurry. Put a whore in the red keep in service to the finest lady of the realm, still a whore, he grimaces. 

After a few minutes, the door opens next to him, showing the little bird's sweet face. Leaving it up to him about the whore, he snorts. "Sandor," she says and it sounds like a precious purr to his ears. He can't stop thinking of her in his lap, her dress coming apart to bare her corset and those teats, gods, her teats. He'd wanted to bare them completely and smother himself in her milky soft skin when she'd managed to loose herself before he'd lost himself. He'd thought to kiss her until her dress coming off distracted him from that aim, and then of course, that spying handmaiden. But what desire she gave him, pressing her lips to his palm.

As eager as he is, he wanted to wait for the army to depart on the heels of the Tyrell's. Hopefully his plan tonight will bear fruit. Just not children, he smirks. Sansa smiles wider at his expression, not knowing his thoughts, only amusing him more.

"Yes, little bird?" he takes a lock of hair between his fingers. At least with the whore-maid paid by him, he doesn't have to guard himself so well not to touch her. Yet the blasted woman got it in her head to offer her other services. 

"Everything alright?" She asks with a pretty blush. 

"Would've thought you'd put the whore right," he tells her. "As though I'd fuck your handmaiden."

She gasps, turning red, then says, "I didn't want to deprive you." Gods, he wants to push inside this door and press his mouth to hers, but he knows Melisandre is like to have new ears that would no doubt catch such a blatant display. 

"Sansa," he says, leaning down to her ear, and says, "I want you." His boldness buttressed by her ever so sweet responses, never shying away from him since he returned from that bloody cell. Still, he worries he went too far.

Her breath hitches, as she looks up to him with wonder in her wide, blue eyes. It's a wonder she can look at him like that not that he wants her as any other man with eyes. He looks down to see her breasts straining against her gown with her shallow breathing. Her delicate hands fly up to her chest with those fluttering sleeves. He smirks back up at her face, enjoying seeing her so flustered. "Everything alright, little bird?" He asks her now, his heavy hand moving from the door to trace her cheek. 

After a moment, she tells him in a quiet voice, "I had a bad dream."

His eyes pinch in confusion at her change of subject. "You didn't tell me this morning." He says with a frown, opening the door wider to enter. 

"I guess I thought you'd think it silly of me," she says. He waits for her to explain, giving her his attention. She takes his hand in hers as she is want to do, and he looks toward the door, keeping it in his sights. "It was the riot, and I got lost in the mob. But when I saw the man, it was Joffrey instead grabbing me. I started calling for you, but I couldn't see you. I woke up so upset in the dark," she tells him.

“What did I tell you? I swear I will keep you safe. Joffrey can't hurt you now." All he feels safe to do is give her little hands a reassuring squeeze as much as he wants to pull her to him and without his blasted breastplate. 

She goes on, looking down, "I try not to think about it, but it feels like it's always there, what it was to be at his mercy." 

"No one will hurt you again, or I'll kill them," he says in all vehemence. Then he says in a quiet rasp to her ear, "Even the Florent."

She looks intently at him when he pulls back and seems to take courage from him as she nods in response. 

"Now want to see the princess? You're always happy to see her." 

She smiles at him and says, "I'm planning to sup with her, Melisandre, and the queen this evening. Could we walk in the garden? I daresay it's a lovely day. Then, we could visit your horse." He nods, though she seems to choose more outings with him of late, preferring him by her side rather than standing guard. Might be nice to take her out of the keep for a change sometime. 

Going through the gardens, he tolerates her attempts at teaching him different flowers, even expecting him to smell them and care about their meaning. Stranger is another matter. He's been acclimating the beast with Sansa's presence. Important if they're going to take him out of this damned city. Still he's been considering ships a safer option. 

She comes into the stall once he's calmed his courser and helps him brush the horse out.  "Taking you somewhere tonight, little bird," he tells her quietly.

She looks to Sandor with confusion, "Where?" 

"Don't worry, in the keep," he says. 

She looks a bit relieved and then seems to chew on something. She says, "Sandor, I...I like when you touch me." He looks down at her with his jaw slack, seeing a twinge of fear in her eyes. What did she say?

"Cira said I might have feelings," she says next.

Too harsh, he breaks in, "Don't listen to anything that whore says." 

"I didn't say it was you," she points out, and then looks back at Stranger. 

He swallows, trying to understand what overtook her to say such when he hears her faint, "I'm sorry." 

He's not sure what to say, and he broods over it while he finishes up Stranger. She looks down and strides out of the stall before he can do anything. He takes her back to her room, hating the tension in her and how she flinches slightly when he touches her hand around his arm. He hopes he hasn't ruined things.

When she's appears, ready for her dinner, he's surprised to see her all dressed up in the southern fashion. She doesn't take his arm but starts a quick pace, her head high as she finds her way through the holdfast. She barely looks at him before heading into the chamber, but in her defiance, he sees the hurt. He'd planned on kissing her but not what he'd say. Also, he needs to discuss leaving soon with her, even if it's a moon's turn or more until Stannis returns. 

After the dinner and the lighting of the fires, he bypasses her chamber to go to a tower, little used now that the war has moved on. The winding stairs are tiring her, so once clear of the main part of the castle, he picks her up under her legs and back to carry up the remaining steps. He keeps his eyes on the stair but can feel hers watching him.

At the top, he sets her down to look out over the city, dusk nearly gone. "Take your hair down," he tells her. When she hesitates, he raises his brow at her to imply his seriousness. She starts pulling out pins, turning from him to look out at the city. 

Shirking his gloves, he comes behind her, starting to pet her strands falling down and running his hands down her arms. She turns to him, uncertain, to ask, "Why did you want to bring me here?" 

"To see you alone," his dominant hand rises to cup her cheek, his other threading into her hair behind her head. Her breathing is shallow, but she doesn't say a word or pull away when he descends to kiss her, pressing his scarred lips against her soft, perfect ones. His eyes remain open, watching hers slowly close with the touch of his lips on hers.

After a pull on her soft strands, his hand leaves her hair to trail down to the small of her back and pulls her against him. He moves his other closer, using his thumb to pull down her bottom lip for a moment, before he continues, his mouth opening to take more of her. She yields to him so sweetly, her little hands coming up to his chest, and makes the sweetest, little moan he's ever heard. That's it, get lost in this, little bird.

As his lips bear down on her, she starts to give some pressure back, eliciting a groan from him to feel her lips learning. Watching her sweet face, her eyes open as he sucks her lower lip, teasing her with his teeth. He's hardly kissed, not in a long time, but it's never been this sweet. So natural to have her like this.

"Sandor," she says unsure, pulling away her face. His name on her lips pulls at him though, and he tilts his head to kiss those very lips again, enjoying the feel of his nose on her cheek as he sets to devour more of her, even testing deepening it. His hand holds the back of her neck, and he inches his hand into her hair. On instinct, he pulls back on it exposing her neck to his open mouth. He runs his teeth over it, hearing her gasp and then whimper as he pulls at the tender skin on the side so he keeps at it to hear her.

"Sansa," he says with urgent want as he takes a break to look over her, her breathing shallow and labored from his attentions. The idea of her naked and panting from him fucking her sends more heat coursing through him. Looking at the red blotch on her neck, he kicks himself for potentially causing a lover's token to bloom on her neck. He's a fool. But to hear her little moans as he sucked on it, there was no stopping him. His forefinger brushes against the spot before his eyes find her half-lidded ones. 

Breathless, she says, "I didn't know it could be like that." 

He chuckles slightly, "Didn't know it for me."

She straightens, puzzled, "You haven't before?"

"Some, but not like this," he says, cursing the twitch starting up at the corner of his mouth. That'll stop her now, he thinks, looking away toward the dying light over the city. He flinches to feel her hand rest on the scarred side of his face. Looking down at her, it's as though she doesn't even feel or see his ragged flesh as she smoothes her thumb over the burned corner of his mouth.

He moves to return to those lips that take away everything, an escape like no other, but she speaks first, "Wait," and an uncertainty enters her countenance. All his earlier concerns come to the forefront suddenly.

"Sandor, I," she hesitates, looking so worried up at him and grabs one of his hands.

"You can tell me," he tries to reassure her, wanting to know, even if she means to end things and before his mind gets the better of him.

"I'm just confused, and I don't know," she says suddenly, gripping his hand that her gaze is pinned to.

"About what?" He lifts her chin to look at him and can see tears start to threaten. It's getting dark so he lights a torch.

"Earlier, I tried to talk about it, but you didn't truly respond. But earlier you said you wanted me, and you kissed me," she blushes. "But I don't know what..."

He breaks in, "I do want you," and hopes that is enough.

"But what does that mean?" she asks, struggling. "I think I have feelings for you, and I'm so happy but then miserable at times."

He looks at her, feeling out of depth, and says, too harsh, "I'm not some knight to declare his fucking undying love, but I want you as mine, can't stand the thought of you with that Florent, and mean to keep you safe and take you away from this thrice-damned city." 

She's quiet, looking at him with surprise, before a smile teases across her face. "Really?" She says softly and beams at him.

"Yes," he hisses. She collides into him then, grappling with his armor for a firm hold. He pets her pretty hair. Looking out over the darkened city, his eyes squint at some moving fires, but he doesn't think much of it. 

Sansa pulls back, saying, "I want to be yours." He grins down at her, widening when he sees her stand on tiptoe reaching for him. He gladly lowers to kiss her, feeling her eager lips against his now. To think Sansa Stark wants to be his, he smirks against her lips. Clouding the surge of pleasure at having her supple and willing in his arms, is the nagging reminder that he doesn't deserve her, that in all likelihood someone will take her away from him or she'd leave of her own will sooner or later. It stabs through him, how he's challenging his miserable lot in life and knows he'll probably lose, and even take her down with him. He shifts his face to bury it in the sweet smell of her hair, squeezing her against him, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. 

"I'll ready us to leave before the week is out. We could head north, though there's a chance we could meet my brother. Or we could take a ship, head north or across the Narrow Sea." He'd been working out plans for days now. 

She blinks at him, "So soon, but my mother, Robb."

"If you wait, you'll have to marry whoever they deem fit, and that Florent's first in line," he grips her shoulders. 

"I have to see them, Sandor! I'll persuade them, I promise," Sansa says, desperate.

"Persuade what? To marry the Lannister dog," he says upset that she could still be so naive. 

"To at least not marry anyone else, and we can restore Winterfell," she smiles at him, hopeful. 

His anger growing, he moves away from her to the tower wall, looking out over the city. 

"Sandor," he feels her attempt to tug on his arm, but his eyes are focused on the fire. A host of torches at the keep gate, could be a hundred pressing into the keep. Starving smallfolk likely now that there’s no army to subdue them.

He immediately reacts, picking her up and heading down the tower in the dark. "Riot at the gates," he says between breaths. He sprints to her chamber, depositing her straight to the bed. He yells at Cira, "Stay here with her, bar the door, open only for me."

Making his way quickly to the stables, he yells, “An attack. To the gates," to a few idle men-at-arms on the way. At the stables, he throws on Stranger's saddle and fits his bridle. " Astride Stranger, he steers to the gate, seeing men working to hold it.

"Who's in charge?" He yells, circling around and luckily seeing some men come from behind him. Getting no answer, he starts ordering the men about, getting a group together to disperse the rioters. "Get your mount if you have one, and return here. We attack soon." He eyed the jostling door, seeing smoke coming from the crack. Blasted rats trying to burn the gate. He knows if they don't disperse the riot soon, it will grow and might make it through to the keep. 

Waiting for the knights to return on their mounts to gather whatever paltry force Stannis left in King’s Landing, Sandor thinks of her soft body close to his only moments ago. He stupidly wants to run his fingers over his lips remembering her kisses. Still, she doesn’t want to leave with him as much as she says she’s his, he clenches his jaw. He’s sure to get a warm welcome from her mother and brother, he snorts to himself.

Seeing more men gather, almost two dozen of them mounted, he makes sure the inner gate is held before yelling to open the gate. He leads the mounted men into the fray to push back the townsfolk. Half the men on foot are to follow while the rest hold the gate, catching any that make they’re way in.

Stranger is his main weapon, riding down all in his path. “Get the horses,” he hears some of the scrawny men yell, but he’s careful to maim those who attempt to attack his horse. He slashes at the rats brutally, hearing cries of horror in his wake. As he drives further into the crowd, he sees the backs of many, running. Good, go back to your buggering hovels.

Pivoting, he turns back to make sure those at the gate are leaving. It will be a red road to the Red Keep tomorrow. He’s startled at something thrown to his back but panics at the fire on him. Damn torch. Stranger rears, sending men scurrying further, and he works to get out the flame and steady his horse. He turns around riding into the throng and cutting at the crowd to disperse those still there. He attacks another two bands, before heading back into the gate, the other men following.

Riding back into the yard, he sees men finishing off a few that made it through. When all the men have returned, only one horse was taken down, and a few other men did not survive. The gate is extinguished and shut back. He’s surprised to see some men looking to him as though he’ll say something, but instead he heads to the stable to see Stranger to his stall. He’ll check on him tomorrow, but first the little bird is sure to be worried.

The inner portcullis is raised, and he heads through on his way to Maegor’s and sees the Red Woman coming out of the old sept, now fashioned her temple. “Notice your castle was nearly overrun with rats,” he says to her with a laugh.

She turns to him, and he can’t help but look again at her belly, no longer round, he dare not ask. “Sandor Clegane, I thank you for leading the men against the distubance,” she smiles at him in that way that bothers him, as though she knows already anything he could say.

“It’ll happen again if you don’t get food into the city,” he tells her plainly.

“Good,” she nods at him, “See me in the morning, and you can assist me in this matter.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, not caring to honor her station, whatever that is.

She gives him another thin smile, “Considering the siege has ended, we have need of someone to go north into the Crownlands and procure provision for the city. You seem to understand the urgency of this need.”

“My lady won’t allow it. Her safety is my concern,” he tells her.

“Does her safety not hinge on feeding the smallfolk as you say?” she cocks her head before walking off toward the holdfast. He waits before heading to the holdfast himself to assure Sansa the threat is over, and let her know what Melisandre intends.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: Queen Selyse's death and Sandor's return

Kneeling with Shireen at her mother's wake in the keep temple, Sansa does not find it hard to appear grieved by the queen's passing. It's been a sennight since Sandor left on Lady Melisandre's errand. He promised he'd return as soon as possible, but she was unprepared for the pain as though he'd physically stolen a part of her and would not be healed until he returned.

Her hand slides up to the side of her neck where his mark fades with every day, and she misses the tender hurt it once held. Cira had made a fuss over it, cooing over who could be her lover-knight and wanting to know details of his appearance and gallantry. How can she not see, Sansa wonders, that it is Sandor who holds her affection in some strange new way she can barely comprehend? Is she in love with him? Her non-knight, Sandor Clegane. Her hand goes to her chest as the yearning she's come to know heightens. 

"Sansa," Shireen notices her distress and places her hand on her other one. "Do not fret. My mother died peacefully they said. She's free from this world and is in some heaven for sure."

She swallows and nods to the princess, the irony not lost on her that the queen's own daughter is comforting her on this occasion, "You are too kind, princess. Thank you, I know this is a difficult time for you." Shireen gives her a small smile. 

At least her new clothing was delivered in time for her to have a black dress to wear. She was shocked to see the amount of added detail and finery to the dresses. She supposes Melisandre thinks she will remain at court with Lord Florent then. Perhaps he will be put on the small council. Though a part of her wishes he doesn't return from the battle, she knows it's false hope. Just as when Joffrey went off to the Battle of the Blackwater and he had her kiss his blade. If it weren't for Stannis and Melisandre, she could be his queen by now, wedded and bedded. A shiver goes through her at the thought, but she finds she has a peculiar gratitude towards the Red Woman in this way. She has yet to truly bring her harm and was even instrumental in her plan to release Sandor from the black cells. 

"Princess Shireen, Lady Sansa," she hears the woman herself call for them, and she's relieved to suspend her vigil. "Come have tea as they prepare the body for the pyre. Dusk approaches."

Taking a seat with the princess in Melisandre's solar, she casts her eyes about and remembers her strange experience here before with the vision in the flames. "A mourning tea we brew in Asshai," Melisandre says as she pours a cup for each of them. The taste is bitter but also full of spice. 

"There's honey if you would like," she points out. Shireen and her smile at each other when both their hands go for it. Thank the gods for her dear friend. "I'm so glad you have each other," Melisandre says, a touch of amusement in her tone. 

"Has there been word from my father?" Shireen asks, and Sansa's glad for she yearns for any news.

"Yes, princess," Melisandre says, "It appears his strategy is working as he follows the Tyrell force retreating into the Reach."

"What about Ser Davos?" Shireen asks next.

Her lips thin as the priestess answers, "Nothing since Casterly Rock." 

"What was the news?" Sansa asks, cursing her impulsiveness, but she's longed to hear word of Robb's host.

"Almost a fortnight ago we received a raven the Stark and Tully forces had secured the fortress. Then they headed toward the Reach," Melisandre watches her closely as she reveals this information, even if her tone is less serious. 

She tries to remain placid despite her mind trying to understand the framework behind this plan. She forces a smile, "Thank you that is good to hear." She tries to sound as though she has understood everything on the surface. 

"Have the Lannister's been defeated then?" Shireen asks.

"It appears so, princess," Melisandre says with a wry smile. "It is said Lord Tywin was slain by his own brother, though I won't believe it until confirmed." Sansa restrains her eyes from widening at the shock and takes a sip of the oddly fortifying tea.

"Lemoncake, Lady Sansa?" Melisandre asks her as a servant brings in a tray. 

"Yes," she answers before she realizes something is amiss. "But how, my lady?"

"We received our first shipment from Duskendale. Lemons were in it," she says, smiling at Sansa in an unnerving way. All Sansa can think is he's here, he's back. Where is he? Why hasn't he come to see me? She closes her eyes trying to calm her unsettling heartbeat. 

"More good news," Shireen says, and she looks to her friend, thankful for her words to respond for her. 

"Yes, I agree, princess," she smiles easily now to see Shireen. As much as she wants to ask after Sandor, she dare not. They both take a lemoncake then and finish their tea before going with Melisandre for the final ceremony. 

The pyre is set up in front of the great hall. So many logs, the queen looks small and insignificant on top of the great array. Melisandre begins, explaining the significance of various oils she pours over the pyre. She takes up a torch, her eyes seeming to find every person gathered, including her own. She speaks, "With this holy flame, Queen Selyse of House Baratheon, your body is returned to the Lord of Light. Your soul already freed, we give you this last kiss." She turns to light the corners and center of the pyre as the group intones, "For the night is dark and full of terrors."

As the flames catch, the oils she used release brilliant colors into the waning light of dusk. Sansa takes Shireen's hand. This is the true last goodbye she has to her own mother. That could not be easy no matter what distance in her relationship.

She looks up to find Melisandre's eyes, and Sansa gives a sincere small nod of understanding. Considering what her life would've been, she can adapt to this, fire god and all if she must. Florent wants control, yes, but he is not as impulsive, cruel, and in as much a position of power as Joffrey was. How could she pledge her heart to him though? Especially after what has happened with Sandor? His kisses, the feel of his hands. Breathless and wondrous. In the moment, she even told him she wants to be his.

Back in her chambers for the night, Cira readies her for bed, but Sansa stays up with a few candles, working at some final touches to the piece of silk she embroidered with Lady. She's applied the other wolves she's finished to her grey dress, and she cannot wait to show Sandor. She was hoping he would come before she went to bed if he is truly returned, but she starts to worry as the time slips by slowly.

Her mind returns to conversations she envisions with her mother and Robb. How to tell them of her affection for Sandor, how she cannot marry Florent or anyone else. It never goes well when she's being honest with herself, and it's Sandor's harsh voice she hears in those moments, telling her not to be a fool. As much as she wishes to see them, she still feels the wound that Robb didn't exchange the Kingslayer for her. As worried as she is, she feels she must go with Sandor. This week without him has made her realize she must be with him and trust he knows what's best for them. But where is he? She sets down her craft with a sigh, setting it away to go to bed. 

Later in the night, her eyes flutter open, taking in the glow of candles. But she had put them out? She moves to sit up, but a large, familiar hand stops her, moving to cradle her head.

"Sandor," she mumbles as her eyes adjust. The bed shifts as he sits. 

"Shh, little bird," she hears his deep, rasping voice.

She sees his face in the candlelight and smiles. Her hands find his, and she closes her eyes with a deep breath taking in the smell and feel of him after so long. "I missed you," she says as her eyes open to find his. "You look pained. Are you alright? You did not suffer a wound?" She starts to worry. 

"No," his face relaxes, "It hurts to look at you so..." He sighs. 

"So what?" She asks, wanting to know his thoughts. Her heart surges to think he must've hurt to be away from her, too.

"So bloody perfect," he says, his hand moving to trace her face. "You know you are, girl." 

"I like to hear you say it more." She smiles, her fingers trailing around his wrists. She wishes he wasn't covered up in armor as much as she enjoys the sight of him in it.

"That you're beautiful and sweet and silly." He smirks at her, and she pinches down on his skin in retaliation. "Ow, and a little lobster," he snorts.

There's suddenly three words she wants to use, "And you're brave and gentle and strong." He takes on that pained expression again as he gazes at her. "Thank you for the lemons. I had lemoncake today," she continues to smile up into his eyes. 

"That's good," he says, his hands moving to run through her hair.

"Where were you earlier?" She asks.

"I'm the only one who knows this shithole they call a city," he snorts. "So I spent all day out overseeing the food stuffs handed out and then Melisandre had me lead a patrol as a show of force."

"Oh," she says. 

"City's safe as it can be. Might take you out of the keep tomorrow, would you like that?" 

"Just us?" She wonders, feeling a little nervous.

“Mhmm," he mutters before lowering, his elbows going to either side, holding her arms as his lips take hers. She squirms her arms until she can wrap them around his neck, bringing her closer to him. The urgent pull of his mouth is sending her back into that rapturous state that had so tethered her to him, and she eagerly gives in to him.

With a quick, rough groan, he raises up, pulling her with him and into his lap. She feels surrounded by him now. Despite the pinch of his armor, his closeness is everything to her with his arms wrapped around her, and his lips kissing hers with a desperate thirst she can barely match. There's no greater protection than here in the safety of his embrace. Still, she can't help but flinch when he presses her further against his chest and a sharp edge jabs her. 

He draws back abruptly taking part of her nightshift with him when it tears where a part of it stuck to that sharp edge. She's reminded suddenly of the sheerness of her new garments and draws a sheet over her. 

"Little bird?" He asks as he steadies his breathing.

"Your armor can be uncomfortable," she says softly, feeling strangely shy now.

"Oh, right," he runs his hand through his hair before the corner of his lip turns up and he says, "Safer for you though." Her brow knits, not understanding him. "I relieved your guard also," he says. "Your shift, it's..." he starts, fingering the thread on his armor but not removing it. 

"I'll fix it," she says quick, and his eyes return to her, falling on the sheet she's gripping. 

"Hiding something from me?" His eyes have a glint of mischief as he tugs at her sheet.

"It's my new under clothes, they're terribly sheer," she says, resisting him though she knows if he wanted to he could force her. "Did you miss me?" She asks, and his eyes come back up to hers. 

He looks at her a moment before answering, "Aye," his eyes serious and intense. "To bed, little bird, we have tomorrow."

"One more kiss?" She asks him hopeful.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he looks her over. She drops the sheet a little, not really thinking about it. That brings a small grin to his face, and he says, "Teasing a man. Dangerous." As he starts toward her with a hungry glint to his eyes, she lays back into bed, and he comes over her. He kisses her lips only a moment before he trails across her cheek to her ear and makes his way to her neck. She shudders at the deep feelings his attention there elicits. 

"I see you kept my mark," he smiles into her skin before biting her right where the last remnants of her bruise lie. She whimpers, her hands clutching into his hair.   
As she feels him leave her neck to go further down, her heartbeat spikes at the newness, but curiosity stays her from pulling back.

He kisses down, moving over her thin shift and pulling the sheet back with him till he's between her breasts. He must notice her troubled breathing swelling her chest, but his hands still move along her side to cover her breasts. The touch sends sparks through her, and she feels like she should stop him but can't. Her back arches on instinct as he starts to squeeze and massage them in circles, and a strange new pleasure seeps through her body. Her fingers dig into his hair, and she can hear her own shallow breathing.

"Fuck," she hears him curse as his hot breath moves over her. He rips further the tear on the left side of her shift, and soon she knows why.  She gasps and pulls away when she feels his mouth close over her revealed nipple, the sensation intense and indecent. "Sandor?" she questions, worried.

His hands move to surround her waist as his head falls to the side over her stomach. As he appears to have stopped, she relaxes, and her fingers instead run through his hair as she starts to hum a song. She feels a peace come over them, and she wishes for many more days spent just so. He stays there for awhile, his breathing becoming even and deep.

When he does rise, he presses a quick kiss to her and stands, wrapping her back up in her bedding. She watches him in the waning candlelight as he repositions his armor and sword belt. Then he looks at her, no words needed, as he snuffs the candle and takes his post outside the door. She takes heart that he's there, protecting her. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV

"Tell her I'll be back at midday," he says to the bloody whore-maid when she comes that morning and then strides back to his quarters. His tiredness is wearing on him after his mission, but he needed to see her, make sure she was safe. Still, he'd be useless to her without some sleep.

Gods, she was sweet. His mind went over and over everything to keep him awake and savor it. How she knew it was him before she even saw him. Her little teasing that had spiked his lust, and he'd nearly died at the touch of her breasts. He'll have to wear some armor though, when he takes her into the city later. Without it last night, he might have crawled right into that bed of hers, next to that sheer shift barely covering her soft body. Seven hells, how tempting she was, her little buds hardening for him. He's going to have to take himself in hand if he's like to sleep.

When he comes back after his slumber, he knocks, the corner of his mouth twitching as he waits. The door opening, he sees her there in all her splendor, smiling up at him from the table. The maid sets out the food, and Sansa says, "Thank you, Cira. Please come join me, Sandor."

He doesn't move from staring at her in a pure white dress that makes her hair and eyes even brighter somehow. He recovers once the maid asks, "M'lady is very beautiful today, is she not?" Sansa looks up at him expectantly with one of her pretty smiles.

He clears his voice as he approaches, looking at the table, and says, "Aye," and sits down. 

"This is one of my new dresses. I have several others, including a horrid red one Lady Melisandre insisted on, at least the deep color doesn't clash too much with my hair." 

He nods to her as he starts to eat. Her talk reminds him though, and he pulls out the bundle he brought, setting it on the table between them. "Thought you might want this.”

Sansa sets down her fork and knife, and gingerly takes the package. "Oh Sandor, thank you, how thoughtful." She starts to open it, pulling out the different hues, her meal forgotten. "This is silk," she says surprised to him. He nods, finishing up his bacon. It’s good to see her happy. "Would you like to see my dresses? I've been applying the direwolves I’ve embroidered to my grey dress,” she says next.

"You can show me when you finish eating," he gestures to her food.

“Of course,” she takes back up her utensils and finishes her meal.

"Here, my grey dress," she brings out to show him and turns it to show the wolves down the back.

"Fine work," he tells her. She smiles bright under his praise.

"My others are quite fine. Here's the deep red one." She shows him another, looks like something Cersei would wear, but he doesn't say it. Except for the burning hearts on the shoulders.

"I'll see you in them all soon enough,” he tells her since he doesn't want to delay their excursion. 

"Yes," she says a little duller but returns with a piece of fabric and lays it in front of him. "I would like you to have this." He pulls his gaze from her to look at the embroidery.

"A wolf," he tells her.

"Yes, it's Lady," she points out, her fingertip lingering on his hand on the table.

"Would be good on your dress," he says, turning his hand over to pull hers into it.

"I already have many direwolves on it. I felt like she should be with you," Sansa says, sounding less sure of herself.

"I'll keep it then," he takes her gift. "Might not always stay pretty," he warns, but she only tightens her grasp on his hand, smiling shyly at him. "We should be going," he tells her.

"Where are we going? Do I need my riding boots? Where has Cira gone?" Sansa asks, flustered.

"I'll help you, little bird," he says, taking the boots she just retrieved and kneeling down. "But I won't tell you where we're going," liking the idea of keeping this to himself. His hand wraps around her calf, taking off her slipper. Then he helps her foot into the boot and then the other. He looks up from her little stockinged feet, now in their boots, to see her eyes watching him with a little smile. She looks to the door before bending quickly to press a kiss to his good cheek light as a feather's touch. The little bit of mischief in her eyes is all too enticing. 

After escorting her to the stables, he saddles Stranger and leads him out. It may be improper, but hells if he's going to worry about keeping her safe on another horse. "Ready?" He asks her before taking her by the waist and setting her on his horse, being careful of her cloak.  She looks surprised but says nothing. "Hold on," he tells her, leading her out of the keep on Stranger, who’s tossing his head with spirited neighs at the girl's presence.

Clear of the keep and its prying eyes, Sandor turns off the main thoroughfare, steps into his stirrup, and heaves up behind her. His arms go to either side of her as he grips the reigns. He could get used to traveling like this, so close to her. 

"Alright?" He asks her as she situates herself over him.

"I think so," she peeks up at him with a slight blush. He presses Stranger into a brisker walk and holds her to him as they continue towards Flea Bottom though he plans to skirt around it. Sansa looks around them as they ride, covering her face with her sleeve at the smell. The few smallfolk in the lane stay out of the path of his warhorse.

After they cross a small area with some traders, they're soon advancing up the hill to the decrepit structure. "Is this the Dragonpit?" She asks, tipping her head to look at him, confusion in her gaze, as they get away from the city.

"Yes, little bird," he tells her, dropping to kiss her before she can look back down. Feels good to be out of that bloody castle.

He stops at the open door, dismounting and telling her, "Stay there," as he tethers Stranger. He unsheathes his sword about to head into the building.

"Sandor?" He hears her alarmed call.

"Going to check for vagrants," he answers, and to be sure it's clear of whores, though would be an odd time of day for it.

"Vagrants!" She gasps. 

"Think I can't keep you safe?" He ask, smirking up at her as he runs his hand over her calf level with him. 

"Of course, I do," she tells him, then looks down towards his hand. "Just be careful."

He snorts, stalking into the once grand entry. "Out," he yells to a lone man there, baring his teeth. He scampers off. No one is in the main arena, and the other side chambers are empty though evidence of those squatting here remains. Likely off trying to get their share of the food.

Coming out, Sandor takes off his gloves and reaches for her. She holds his arms as he helps her down to her feet. He runs his hands down her warm arms, which seems to calm her. They come back up to her neck, resting over her collarbone as he undoes her cloak to see her in her pretty, white dress. She's everything he shouldn't have, but damn him if he'll turn away.

"I noticed you're wearing less armor," she says in a soft tone. 

"Yes, little bird," he acknowledges. His knuckles trace her jaw, and he looks at her perfect face trained on him, seeing a bit of uncertainty enter her eyes. 

Holding her cloak in one hand, he takes her hand with the other and leads her through the great doors into the first room. She looks around the vaulted ceiling of the entry, fascinated, “Shireen would love to see this,” she says as she touches a dragon carving.

“Suppose the Targaryen's stopped using this when they lost the last of their dragons," he says before he tugs her into the main arena. 

"Oh my, it's unbelievable," she says, dropping his hand as she walks to the center. He glances about to be sure they're still alone before he joins her where sky shines through the open roof. "So sad," she says looking around, "Still hard to imagine dragons as real."

"There's some evidence," he points to a charred part of the ceiling. "Though they say the last Targaryen across the Narrow Sea has three."

"Truly?" Sansa looks to him, shaking her head. "I can't believe that."

"Likely rumor just to try and gather support here as if any care," he says, harsh. Sansa nods, and it feels odd the value she puts on his words.

“I heard from Melisandre that my brother took Casterly Rock and he should be in the Reach,” she tells him.

“Aye,” he says, “You will see him soon then.”

She bites her lip then. “I won’t,” she says, and he looks at her, weighing her words. “I want to go with you. I’ve thought it over, and I don’t see another way for us to be together. If you want,” she ends uncertainly.

“Of course, I want that,” he moves closer, raising her chin for her eyes to meet his. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she says and grabs his hand at her chin. “Don’t look at me like that, like you have to test me. Don’t you trust me?”

Her words startle him, but he pulls her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head and telling her, “Yes, I do.”

After a moment, he pulls her back to tell her, “We will leave soon. I’ll make ready.”

“Yes, Sandor,” she tells him.

“Come see the other rooms,” he tells her, taking her hand.

“These were once as fine as the Red Keep,” Sansa remarks, looking around and touching a threadbare tapestry.

The last room affords a view towards the north. “We’ll be headed that way likely,” he tells the little bird and spreads her cloak on the floor. He helps her to sit down. Then, he pulls his mail over his head and takes his place next to her. She leans into him when he puts his arm around her, but when he brings her face to his it’s not how he imagined it.

“What’s wrong, little bird?” He brushes his hands through her hair, and then he’s wiping her tears falling from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “It’s only, I won’t see them.” He pulls her close, letting her cry. The moisture seeps into his tunic as he combs through her hair. “

"I know I can’t lose you,” she sniffs as she sits up straighter again. “It hurt too much when you were away.” She’s crying again then, running her hands over his chest and then his shoulders. She gets up on her knees and is in his lap before he even realizes it. She starts kissing his chest, over his shoulders as if ever inch of him is precious to her.

“Sansa,” he pulls her back, saying her name perhaps too harsh, but her display bewilders him. He had missed her sorely as well, but he hadn’t anticipated this from her. His hand seems too big as it settles on the side of her face, inching into her hair. She turns to kiss it, her eyes almost aching in their sight. “No need to be so bloody sad, little bird, I’m not going anywhere except with you.”

She smiles a little then. “I like you like this,” she says, petting the tunic over his chest.

He smirks, “Not sure how you like any of it,” not able to keep the bitterness out.

“Sandor,” she says, giving him a look.

Before she can say anything else, he tells her, “You deserve more. What can I give you? We’ll be on the run. You were to be queen.”

She’s the one grabbing his chin now, quickening his anger. He can see a tinge of fear as she sees it start to burn, and she removes her hand. “You know I would never have been happy, not even for a day. Joffrey would’ve made sure of that. A kiss from you and I forget everything. Do you not know how happy you make me?”

“Little bird,” he looks her over, his anger dissipating as he wonders at how such a beautiful maiden could be here in his arms saying this. He kisses her then and feels her lips strong against his. Something lets go inside him, and he allows himself to feel more than the lust he knows well enough. It’s as though they are connected. It’s not merely her lips he’s meeting or her body he’s touching but her, Sansa, and a ripple goes through him at the intensity of it.

He can’t stop, and he pulls her body into his as she yields more to his attentions. His open mouth kisses are at once deep and then pulling at her lips to take in all her sweetness. As his hand fists her hair in his urgency, her mouth opens more to him, and she moans into their kiss. He continues as she becomes completely relaxed against him, almost slack, despite his growing tension. His hand moves down her dress to free one of her breasts, and he hears her panting as he takes a deep breath before he sets on her nipple, sucking at it with all his fervor. It hardens as he bites it slightly, hearing her mumble his name. 

On instinct, his hand travels down to the edge of her skirt. When he doesn’t stop at her calf, she jerks, and her hand moves to stop his. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times, then sees her, looking wide-eyed at him. He removes his hand, resting it on her dress. Down dog, he thinks to himself with amusement.

“Sorry,” she says, repositioning her breast.

He looks at her confused. “I’m the sorry one. Wasn’t thinking.” He chuckles, “You have that effect,” and rubs the back of his neck. ”Come here, okay?”

She scoots back into him, and he holds her like that for a bit longer feeling the rays of the sun warm them through the cracked window. He then nudges her up, “Should get moving.”

As she gets up, she tells him, “You nearly tore my dress,” studying the side of it.

“Then you’re lucky I only nearly did,” he gets up, too, giving her a swat to her bottom and picking up her cloak. He shakes it out and then puts back on his mail.

He takes her back to the keep then, making sure to arrive with only her on Stranger. It isn’t long until he takes her to light the fires at dusk. He asks one of Shireen’s guard that watched Sansa while he was gone to escort her back to her chambers.

During this time, he goes to his room, checking on the stores he had kept for himself in case he would flee with her. He readies some of the items and puts them in bags to take to Stranger. Later that night, he steals out to the stables to start preparing Stranger. If they head to Duskendale, he saw many ships there, avoiding the stubborn royal navy’s blockade of King’s Landing.

Consider his surprise when he finds that red woman, torch in hand in the courtyard like she’s waiting for him with her men holding swords aflame. “Sandor Clegane,” she addresses him. Fuck.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Going somewhere?” She asks and nods to one of her men. He approaches, and Sandor would resist if it would do any good, but he’s outnumbered. He tugs at his bag, toting it to the red woman and spilling out its contents in front of her. She shines her torch over it, and it’s damning enough.

“You must miss your home in the black cells or perhaps it’s R’Hllor’s kiss you long for,” she speaks in her lofty way.

Her speech of fire makes his heart pump, but he levels at her calmly, “I’m free to come and go as I please. I answer to Lady Sansa Stark.”

“Yes, and I’m sure Lady Sansa would be displeased to know her sworn shield is planning to leave her. That is unless you plan to take her away?” She makes it into a question.

He stays silent for better or worse, but then he says something stupid, “What of your pregnant belly, witch?”

“How good of you to ask,” she answers so calm it chills him from the heat of his anger. “You see, Sandor Clegane,” she strides toward him, “In the name of the Lord of Light, I bind shadows to my will. This is how Tywin Lannister was killed. You cannot escape a shadow assassin.” He’s incredulous, but he can tell it’s the truth and that unnerves him more.

She doesn’t wait for his reaction but continues, “In his service, I see many visions in the flames. One I see is a burned man wielding a sword of ice as he slays a mountain.” He knows of what she implies, and he feels that familiar pull to be the one to end his brother’s life. “I also see a young woman with red hair and blue eyes,” he tenses at the mention of the little bird, “I see her giving birth to the king’s sons.” He’s frozen at first by what she has said, but then the truth grips him like a dagger to the heart, the meaning of her schemes. What she truly wants with his beautiful little bird. He thinks of the dresses she was showing him and now knows what they mean.

“You’d give her to Stannis. Does she even have a choice?” He grits out finally.

“It is an honor to her and her house. She will be queen.” She comes strangely close to him, and he sees her fingers ignite in caution at her nearness. “You must understand you cannot continue with this folly. You cannot take her anywhere I won’t reach you. You will have stolen the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“She doesn’t fucking want this,” he says, pouring his vitriol into his stare.

“I know. She thinks she wants you.” He’s alarmed by her words, the danger they mean, and his eyes go wide. “I know about Merry. I’m still having you watched. If you so much as kiss her again, I will have you thrown back into the black cells. If you take her maidenhead, you will be burned.”

“Why not kill me now?” He yells at her.

“For your sake, she agreed to marriage and that is what she will do. Also, someone must kill your brother.”

“You think I’d leave her?”

“You plan to stay as she is wedded and bedded, and her belly grows round with the king’s babe? Staying in her shadow, never able to touch her again as she must go to her marriage bed night after night?” She twists the dagger she’d thrown with her revelation.

He knew this would happen. He knew it was too good, the little bird, his. He knew she’d be taken from him. He’s a bloody fool. How’s he going to tell her? Lady Melisandre leaves him there in the dark, her men’s swords sheathed, but he knows he’s not alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a roller coaster of a chapter that sees a very defeated Sandor at the end. We're back to more plot for awhile, less sansan after this chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn POV: The Rose Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile, plot headaches and life headaches. This fic is mostly based on the HBO plot/timing, but I draw on the books, too, for information/opportunities. I'm using Talisa here, started using Jeyne but since this is mostly HBO, I'm just going to assume Talisa is Robb's wife. Please comment, love to know your thoughts. Thanks for reading always!

He has too small a force to be running to block the Tyrells, what if Stannis is too far behind. Catelyn's worries have heightened since Robb has reached the Rose Road and blocked the Tyrell supplies. Near to Bitterbridge she was told.

  
Her son had come to see her barely a handful of times, sequestered as she's been kept since sending Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing with Lady Brienne. There was no sign of Brienne as they took the long, hard road to Casterly Rock. He lost too many good men in his rush to secure the fortress before sweeping down into the Reach, traveling as long as the sun will shine.

Early on, she had begged him to return to Winterfell, to find his brothers and leave Stannis to his fight. He hadn't seen what she saw. A shadow Ser Davos called it. She could tell that he knew, he had seen, and he feared. She has a deep mistrust for this priestess and her foreign god. The woman, if that is what she is, should have never been let ashore Westeros. Catelyn remembers the unnatural red glow of her eyes, only matched by the ruby at her throat, when Catelyn had tried to bring peace between the Baratheon brothers. Her only hope now is to see Sansa, she must be so beautiful now, and to find Arya.

The hard gallop of a horse is heard rushing past her tent, making the canvas flutter in its wake. Her hand comes to her chest as she says to her guard, "Ser Wendell, would you please see what news this rider brings?"

"Yes, my lady," he tells her, heading towards the break in the tent canvas. At least Robb allows her Ser Wendell Manderly, a knight who values honor, though any man’s honor pales in comparison to her husband’s.

“Please address my son to ask if he would speak with me, ser,” she asks quickly before he leaves. 

"Of course, Lady Catelyn." He nods, it is a common request of hers. His steel plate clanks as he heads out into the camp. She steels herself as she waits, hoping to see her son again before he leads his army against the Tyrells and Lannisters as she fears. Her hands hold onto a handkerchief Sansa had embroidered with winter roses and rest on her woolen dress.

It is awhile before Ser Wendell returns, and the clamor outside increases as she hears soldiers sloshing through the mud in all directions. Her patience is running thin by the time her guard breaks through the flap into her tent.

“My lady,” he pants, taking a moment to catch his breath. She remains composed as she awaits his information. “The Tyrells were seen approaching. Lannister banners have not been sighted.” Their alliance must be broken, she breathes a little easier.

“My son?” She looks up at him.

“I conveyed the request, my lady,” he tells her with a tight smile. “The army makes ready to meet the other.”

She nods, still hoping he will come see her, and asks, “Stannis?”

“No word yet.”

Her lips tighten at that answer. If the Tyrell’s press past the northern and riverland forces and make it to Highgarden, a long siege will be in store. Ser Wendell returns to his guard position as she considers these things and then turns her attention to making sure she’s packed enough to in a moment if necessary.

Her midday meal having arrived, she resigns herself that he will not visit, so she’s surprised when a guard enters abruptly and moves to hold up the entrance to her shelter. Her son follows after, another of his personal guard behind him. She rises immediately, curtsying, “Your grace.”

“Mother,” Robb says, “please sit.”

She returns to the bench, Robb taking a seat beside her. She turns to the servant, “See that his grace is served.”

“No need,” Robb breaks in, dismissing the servant.

She can’t help but smile at the sight of him, even if it is tinged with sadness. So brave and handsome, not a boy anymore, her son. In his eyes, she sees her late father’s, how she remembers them, bright and considerate. “So proud of you, Robb,” she can’t help herself, holding her hand out to him. He takes her hand in his with a tender hold. “Be safe, come back to me.”

His face takes a lightness with a boyish smile as he says, “That's what Talisa tells me. I give you leave to visit with her during the battle. I worry for her.”

“Of course,” she says with a polite smile.

“If…” he starts.

“Don’t,” she interrupts him.

He holds up his hand, stopping her, “If I don’t survive, please tell Sansa and Arya, too, I would have loved to see them. As you know my wife is with child, care for her care as if she were your own daughter and look after my child.” She takes a deep breath as his words sink in. They pull at her heart despite the confidence in his voice.

She closes her eyes and nods. “I will, I swear to you. We will find Arya.” He nods and together it feels less an impossible task. Where has my daughter gone? So young, her only one to look like Ned.

“Won’t be a king much longer, just a lord,” he smiles at her, standing up. “Goodbye Mother.”

“Goodbye, my son.” She stands, and he allows her an embrace. He catches her eyes before striding back through the tent and out to the ensuing battle.

After he leaves, she focuses on her meal disturbed by the commotion going on all around her as the army departs. She feared her own tent would be rode down by the number of horses heard riding out of the camp. With the sun high in the sky, the afternoon stretches on as a quiet settles around her with the knights and other menat-arms off to meet the coming army. Almost too quiet with only the distant sounds of the fighting floating on the wind to try her nerves.

She goes over her belongings again, prepared to leave if necessary, but soon finds herself without distraction from the stress taking over her with the uncertainty of the ongoing battle. Has Stannis arrived?

Her mind mulls over Robb’s request to seek out Talisa. She knows her to be resilient in her way, that she’s probably fine. Catelyn can’t argue her confinement has served to avoid his chosen wife though it has also taken her from her son. Robb knows she does not approve, she even counseled him against his decision. She had made the marriage agreement with Lord Walder, and he had agreed to the terms. Family. Duty. Honor. Talk of her brother marrying a Frey daughter instead worries her. Walder Frey is not one to take such a slight lightly.

The thought of the child stirs her, so she gets up, smoothes down her dress and addresses her guard, “Ser Wendell, I believe it is time we visit  
the queen.”

“Yes, my lady,” he answers with a smile, likely wanting a distraction himself and moves to the entrance to hold the canvas for her. She steps out into the clear day, only the bristle of wind signaling the coming autumn. The camp is nearly empty as she picks her way to the queen’s pavilion.

Ser Wendell moves to open the flap but freezes suddenly at what he must see. Catelyn pushes past him into the tent. She steels herself at the sight of her good-daughter limp and face down on the ground, and her lady-in-waiting, Lady Mara, in a similar state.

“We must see if they live,” she says, moving to Talisa’s side and pushing at her shoulder to see her face. Catelyn takes her face in her hands, trying to wake her, but she sees the red marks starting to bruise her neck though and fears the worst.

Catelyn glances up to see her guard still frozen. “Lady Mara, Ser Wendell,” she directs the knight, who reacts, going to the lady and trying to resuscitate her.

Feeling a dampness, Catelyn looks down to see blood coming from Talisa’s belly and with effort she turns her over to see the stab wound. Something in her turns, and she feels anger surge within her despite her shaking hands. Who would dare come here and murder Robb’s wife, the northern queen and her lady? Her hand covers the swell of Talisa's stomach, and she could break right here at the loss of her first grandchild, before she even saw their beautiful face, but she cannot let herself.

“She’s gone, Lady Catelyn,” Ser Wendell says to her from his place by the lady. “The guards, I did not see them.” Catelyn nods, still looking at her hand resting on her good-daughter. She wonders who the guards were, if they were killed or replaced, her mind is already trying to determine how and why this happened, and most importantly, who.

A pull at her chest disrupts her thoughts and her hands go up to clutch her chest. Robb. “Ser Wendell, you must go to Robb, you must see no harm befalls him.”

“Lady Catelyn, I cannot leave you.”

“If whoever did this wanted me dead, we would know by now. This is a matter of life and death, Ser Wendell Manderly. By the honor of my late husband and the loyalty your own father has to House Stark, I ask you to protect your lord.” He holds her gaze as he takes in her speech, not answering in words but by action. He stalks out, a purpose to his stride as he leaves on her errand.

At the queen’s pavilion, Catelyn looks for anything of import, but she’s most interested in who were to be the queen’s guards for the battle. She fears searching further, worried to find herself in the path of whoever murdered the queen.

It is not until the sky is the darkest blue and candles must be lit that Ser Davos enters the queen's pavilion with her uncle, Brynden, both with grim and tired faces. Her heart falls out of her chest at the sight of them. Please say Robb is meeting with Stannis.

Catelyn had gathered a few women in the camp to help her with the bodies, which lay out on separate tables in the room.  Brynden's brows knit in confusion as she looks at the queen and then her lady. 

"What is this?" Ser Davos asks.

"Queen Talisa and Lady Mara, I found strangled here in her pavilion, her guards without. Talisa's stomach stabbed, she was with child. My guard, Ser Wendel Manderly can speak for it, if he has survived the battle." Silence follows her statement as Ser Davos grimaces.

"We'll have to check the wounded," Davos says.

"Cat," Brynden addresses her, and she looks to him. His eyes are heavy and drawn, and Catelyn's lip begins to tremble. "No," she whispers.

 Brynden frowns as he tells her, "Your son has died in the battle." 

She doesn't know how she's standing because the loss hits her like a hard blow. Somehow she knew but to hear it made truth. She's still as water, the only change is moisture gathering in her eyes. "Take me to him," she says softly, a plea.

Brynden nods, solemn, turning to leave. Davos speaks orders to the men there, but she's in a haze, even her vision clouded as she makes her way to the main tent. She finds some resolve, holding herself together as they make a way through the men gathered. Brynden is telling her, “Stannis is here, the Tyrell’s have surrendered,” but she barely comprehends.

At the sight of him laid out, her heart falls again, the void already there, spreading all through her like winter is truly come. Those there move away as she goes to his side, her hands resting around his face. He already has stones over his eyes, and the septon is near at hand, the smell of incense filling the air. 

Her tears fall down onto him as though a last rite, and her hands touch his hair, a Tully red, for the last time. She doesn't care if they won the war because she has lost, right here, she has lost when she thought she could not lose any more.

She doesn't know how long she stays there, night has completely fallen and men came and went, wanting to see their king one last time. Brynden comes next to her, "You should rest, Cat."

She turns from looking at her son to say, "Take me to the wounded, I must find Ser Wendel."

They march through the dying until she spots his large form, a maester at his side as he bats his hand at the vial he carries.

"Ser Wendel," she calls to him, coming to his side. 

"You are Lady Catelyn," the maester asks.

"Yes," she looks to him. 

"He's been calling for you, refusing milk of the poppy. He grows worse from the pain."

"Ser Wendel," she takes his sweat-drenched hand, finding his eyes. 

"Cattt," he barely gets out with a slur.

"I'm here," she tells him, calm.

"Tttoo," he struggles to get out, trying to hold up his fingers of his other hand.

"Two?" She asks him, and his chin nods slightly. 

"Ttowrrs," he mumbles next, "Ttoo Towrs."

Two towers, she wonders, as Wendel brings his hand to his chest, and she sees his meaning. Two towers on the surcoat, and then the deeper meaning sinks in. House Frey. She had sent him after Robb, he must have seen something.

"Maester, you may give him milk of the poppy, now," she tells him. Ser Wendel doesn't resist now, having delivered his message.

"Uncle," she turns to him. "Guard this man with your life, see that he makes it through the night." She heads out into the night to find her way back to her tent, certain her son’s death was at the hands of a traitor.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV: Riverlands

Harwin had been the one to recognize her. Though she held her blade steady, she'd looked puzzled at the strange band of men, wondering what her father's guard was doing out here, though then she remembered he was sent with the force after the Mountain. 

"We are known as the Brotherhood without Banners." A curious man said with an accent not of the Seven Kingdoms. So this is the brotherhood, she had thought, looking them over, not impressed. 

They were going to take her to Riverrun as a ransom, but that was weeks ago. Gendry said Robb's army had gone west, and they will take her there sometime, but she'll still have to wait for her family there. They're preoccupied with thwarting the Mountain's raiding parties from Harrenhal, but she thinks they don't want Riverrun too aware of them. She tries not to think about it. She resents her mother and Robb for it, too, somehow. Why couldn't she be with them? Riding next to her brother, King in the North, with Greywind, but no, she's stuck here in the Riverlands. 

At least, Anguy has been teaching her the bow. The woods have been hunted hard, but she's snagged a rabbit here or there. Last two raids, she's stayed hidden with him, shooting Lannister riders. She caught one square in the chest, and he fell off his horse right there. Makes it easy work for the swordsmen. Still, she longs to have Needle back and has eyed each group they lie in wait for to catch sight of Polliver. He will get her first arrow on that day.

They're heading to an inn along the Red Fork, not far from Riverrun truly, the Kneeling Man it's called after one of her ancestors who bent the knee here to Aegon the Conqueror and thus, Starks were Kings of Winter no more. Until Robb, but Thoros says he will bend the knee to Stannis. 

She takes off ahead of Gendry to get Hot Pie's fresh bread. "Arry," he calls after her. She swings into the inn, going to the kitchen to find Hot Pie. The brotherhood frequent this inn, having an arrangement with the proprietor for ordering supplies and information.

"Here," Hot Pie says, smiling as he pulls a fresh pie out of the oven. "Fresh fish from the river."

"Thanks," she smiles, carrying it to sit down in the main room. The pastry crunches as she tears into it. Chewing, she looks around the room, only to find two eyes trained on her from deep within the hood of a cloak. The person looks to his companion, a knight, murmuring to him. When he turns around in his bright armor, she's surprised to see it's a woman, the shock likely clear on her face as she stops eating the pie. 

The woman knight advances toward her with her companion in her grasp. "Lady Arya," she addresses her, and she just stares, her mouth full of fish pie. 

"What do you want?" She hears Gendry come up behind her, attempting a menacing voice.

The woman stays focused on her, "Lady Arya, I am Brienne of Tarth. I am sworn in service to your mother, Lady Catelyn. I am headed to Riverrun, would you like to go there and see your family?"

She mumbles, trying to get her pie down, "Heard they weren't there. Who's he?" She points to the man in hiding, clearly he knows her.

"We can send word from Riverrun, and Lady Catelyn will return," Brienne begins to explain, but Thoros comes in loudly saying in jest, "What have we here? A lady-knight?" The brothers all laugh coming in behind him. 

"Tallest bitch I've seen." One of them cries from the back, eliciting more jeers.

Brienne looks put out, but Arya is looking over her fine armor, her two swords. This is her mother's sworn guard? She's never seen her before.

"And who would this be?" Thoros moves toward the cloaked figure, but quick as a cat, the lady has her blade out and raised at Thoros to defend her charge.

"Who are you?" Brienne says, serious and challenging.

"The Brotherhood." Thoros takes a bow with an exaggerated flourish. "Led by Lord Beric Dondarion and myself, Thoros of Myr."

"Lady Brienne of Tarth, sworn shield to Lady Catelyn Stark. I demand you release Lady Arya to me to return to her family in Riverrun."

Arya has continued to watch the cloaked man through this exchange, and when he tosses his head at the falling hood, she knows him. "Kingslayer," she yells out, pointing at the man. 

Brienne stands in front of the Lannister and backs away with her sword still upturned. 

"The sword," she yells now as she spies Jaime reaching for her second sword. All of the brothers draw their swords and spread out around the pair. Anguy comes next to her, aiming the bow to Jaime's heart.

In the standstill, Harwin, who she's never seen look as fierce as he does now, speaks up, "Lannister, I saw you put a dagger through Jory Cassel's eye. He was Lord Stark’s captain of the guard. You and your men killed a number of Stark men that day, good men, before attacking my liege lord, Lord Eddard Stark. You should be tried for these crimes and more." A murmur of assent echos through the inn at his declaration.

"Hang him," Arya yells, getting a look from Gendry as he glances back at her to be quiet.

"Enough," Brienne says above the din, "This man is in Stark custody. I was charged with exchanging him for Ladies Arya and Sansa Stark in King's Landing. With Stannis's victory, I am returning Ser Jaime to Riverrun.”

“We have no banners, Lady Brienne,” Thoros says, sounding at ease despite the circumstance. “We seek justice for the smallfolk of this land, ravaged by the Lannister armies. We must try this man.”

At his statement, Jaime lashes out at Thoros who deftly pushes the blade aside and dodges the next blow with a sidestep. Lady Brienne takes this chance to slice at Harwin who receives a laceration to his right arm and yells out at the trauma.

“Stay your hand, Lannister, or die here,” Anguy beside her raises his voice over the din of clashing steel as Jaime squares off with Thoros and Lem. He tries to get behind Lem and hold him hostage against him, but Anguy releases his arrow, catching his left shoulder. “Next your sword arm,” he says, already having another arrow set.

“Gendry!” Arya cries looking over to see him attempt to help his companions with Brienne. The brotherhood have them outnumbered four to one, and it’s still a fair fight, Arya realizes as she watches Brienne hold off Harwin and easily disarm Gendry before Meritt and Jack break in to draw her off him. She presses Jack back as her blade crashes down on his, and it is only Jaime calling, “Brienne,” that makes her back away.

Thoros and the Hunstman have him, Anguy’s arrow trained on the Lannister, his sword falls from his still-bound hands. “Out of practice,” the Lannister quips.

“Gendry, the rope,” Thoros calls to him. Next, the men are restraining them, the Kingslayer turning pale as blood rushes from the wound in his arm.

“Someone wrap that,” Brienne calls out to them from her restraints. She’s surprised to see Gendry go to the kitchen to grap a strap of cloth and wrap it around the Kingslayer’s arm.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she jumps up and goes over, elbowing him out of the way as she takes over the task. 

She sees the Lannister give Gendry a curious look, his brow pinched but a smirk still twisting his lips. “You look like someone,” he says to Gendry.

Gendry looks up at him, knowing, so Arya takes the moment to break the arrow, making the Kingslayer cry out and fresh blood trail out. He doesn’t say anything after that.

With new stores and their captives in tow, Arya shares Gendry’s horse as they head back to the weirwood cave.

“You have to?” Arya whines as Gendry produces the hood they still make her wear. They think once she’s in Riverrun, she’ll lead the guard straight to their hideout.

“Have to,” he tells her, and she knows. She wants to fight it, but at least it’s Gendry.

The day is gone by the time they reach the cave. Gendry takes off her hood as they enter, and she hears the commotion behind her as the two captives enter. Other members come out to help with the haul.

A large fire is burning in the main hall of the cave when she arrives, glinting off the weirdwood roots and a great pot brewing over it. Gendry and her go to fill their bowls. She looks at Lord Beric there as she blows on her soup. He doesn’t eat anymore. Not that she knew he did before, but one would think. She doesn’t understand what he is anymore, he keeps forgetting her name, who she is. Not dead but not alive to her.

Harwin brings in the Kingslayer with the Huntsman’s help and pulls off his hood. He shakes his hair, his eyes squinting as he makes out the cave. “Beric Dondarrion,” he says, looking at the lord and their leader. “I thought…” He trails off.

“Yes, I was invested with the task of hunting down Ser Gregor Clegane by Lord Eddard Stark. We met him and a host of sellswords at Mummer’s Ford. We are what’s left.” Arya can see there is no love lost on Beric’s part.

The Kingslayer says nothing, only looking at the man, but Arya knows he has drawn the conclusion Beric already has, it was Lord Tywin’s doing. She wonders, as she has ever since she was told the tale of how the brotherhood began, if her father’s fate would be any different if he was able to lead the mission and not Lord Beric in his stead. Her thoughts are disrupted as Brienne is brought in, stationed near Arya, her hood removed but kept bound.

Thoros speaks, “Harwin has accused you of killing members of the Stark household and attacking Lord Stark himself. What have you to say?”

“At the time, Lady Stark had taken hostage my brother Tyrion. I was only acting on that account,”

“Hardly an excuse for what you done,” Harwin says, ringing in the cave, affirmative voices murmuring around him.

“It is also known and decreed by the king that now sits the Iron Throne that you fathered the bastard king Joffrey through incest with your sister. Not very kingsguard of you,” Thoros mocks the Kingslayer. “And of course, we all know how you got your name, Kingslayer.”

The Lannister’s serene faces alters with anger at Thoros’s words. He goes to speak but stops, then says, “Do you want to know the last words of mad King Aerys?”

No one answers him, but he speaks anyways, quietly, almost to himself, “Burn them all. Burn them all.” He then quips, “Heard it’s little different in the capitol under the new reign.”

“Better than a Lannister inbreed,” Lem yells out as other disgruntled voices are heard, but Arya’s strangely caught on his account, mulling it over. Burning people in King’s Landing, she wonders. The Kingslayer looks more sober than he has all evening as insults are thrown at him, but he’s gone somewhere else entirely. Arya knows that look, she wears it herself when she thinks of her father, of how she lost him. He should burn for his part in it, for being Joffrey’s father.

Lord Beric stands now, “You are accused here of murder and also assault of Lord Stark. You are also accused of fathering through incest the bastard king Joffrey. You were pardoned by King Robert for assassinating King Aerys, so that stands. I sentence you...”

“I demand a trial by combat,” the Kingslayer interrupts.

Thoros and Beric share a look. She moves to stand and yell burn him, but Gendry holds her back. “Let them decide, Arry.”

“Fine, we’ll see Beric put a sword through his heart.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Gendry says to her with a soft smile.

“So be it,” they hear Beric say, unsheathing his sword. Thoros turns it to fire, blazing out in the dark of the cave. Someone unties the Kingslayer and puts one of Brienne’s swords in his hand. He holds it firm despite holding his other hand protectively, the wound bleeding through the cloth.

“I’ll fight for him,” Brienne says, attempting to stand.

“No,” Lannister says.

“Jaime, you are wounded,” Brienne says to him, serious. Arya is confused by this exchange, isn’t Jaime her prisoner she was taking to Riverrun? She bets her mother wouldn’t approve of her sworn shield as champion of Jaime Lannister. “Untie me,” she says, harsh, to the nearest brother.

“It is my crime, I will fight for my life,” the Lannister says, turning to his side and raising his sword. The brother pushes Brienne back down, closer to her, and Arya watches a pained expression cloud her features.

Thoros approaches the flames, speaking, “ _Lord of Light cast your light upon us. Strike this man down if he is guilty. Give strength to his sword if his is innocent. Give us truth. For the night is dark and full of terrors_.”

Lord Beric and the Kingslayer face off in the glow of the fire. Beric attacks, the flames trailing after the sword in cuts at the Lannister’s side. He should’ve let Brienne fight for him, he has no armor. Still, his sword meets every drive from Beric.

When the Kingslayer loses his balance due to his wounded arm, she believes it’s over, but he dodges the blow barely, his tunic catching fire from the sword so near. He screams out as the flames burn his skin, his sword no longer sure. “Guilty,” some of the men yell. Beric strikes hard, making the Kingslayer jump back further, his sword barely deflecting the attack. Beric strikes again, then turning his blade for another strike as the Lannister finds the wherewithal to parry each blow.

Keeping his momentum, Beric angles his sword to catch the Lannister against the cave wall, but Ser Jaime sidesteps, making Beric’s attack miss. Arya’s eyes go even wider as she watches Jaime slamming aginst Beric with his whole body, pushing him to the ground. Then, he’s wrenching the burning tunic from his body, his back bright red, his skin gone.

Beric seems lost as he stands, though the sword in his hands serves to remind him. The Kingslayer drives his sword in a thrust toward Beric’s gut but gets parried away in a twist of Beric’s sword. The scrape of their swords fills the cave as the Lannister puts every ounce of muscle into his attack, crying out from the pain of his wounds even. He draws his sword away quickly, dodging the path of Beric’s longsword coming down from the sudden loss of resistance. Jaime then brings his steel down on Beric’s hand, taking a few fingers as he disarms him. His sword is then at Beric’s throat. “To death?” He asks.

“You have proven yourself. The Lord of Light honors you,” Thoros says to him. “R’Hllor need not bring Lord Beric back again.”

“Again?” The Lannister looks to him. Arya has seen the wounds. Beric should be long dead from the Mountain’s lance in his chest, not to mention his other deaths.

“This man has received fatal wounds. I give him the last kiss, praying over him to the Lord of Light who has revived him five times now.”

The Kingslayer looks astonished, but Brienne calls out, “He must see a healer.”

Thoros nods and ushers in Nell, the healer, who sees to Jaime.

Arya turns to Brienne, “Why would you champion for him? You say you’re my mother’s sworn shield.”

Brienne is tight-lipped, her brow knitted deeply. “I have traveled a long time with Ser Jaime. Lannister or no, I could not see him fight under such circumstances without lending my sword.”

“My mother would not have asked that of you. If I still know her.”

Brienne nods but says no more about it. She speaks out to Thoros instead. “You have had your trial. Give me leave to return Lady Arya and Ser Jaime to Riverrun.”

“We meant to ransom the girl. If you take her, where’s the gold. You say you were to trade the Kingslayer for her, you still can.”

“That was not the agreement.”

“There was no agreement.”

“Do you have no honor, ser? You seek justice, for the Stark’s no less, but you would hold Lady Arya hostage thus, and take a highborn prisoner of the war.”

“Honor does not feed the smallfolk starving from the very same war,” Thoros says, looking sharply at Brienne.

“I will not leave Ser Jaime with you or leave Lady Arya.”

“You said you would take me to Riverrun already,” Arya jumps in.

“Then we go to Riverrun,” Lord Beric speaks, putting his hand on Thoros’s shoulder. “Keep the fires burning, Thoros, we leave at first light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics are quotes from the show Thoros says before the Hound's trial by fire.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: The Red Keep

A coldness has entered into her. Even Cira remarks on it, noting her skin is like cool waters to the touch, the first step into the sea. "You are definitely not from Dorne," she will laugh. No, she is of the North, Sansa feels it in the cool blood running through her and her skin turned to bitter-cold steel encasing her. At once, armor to protect her and binding to strangle her. Only at times will a heaviness press down on her chest, torturous in its effect, and her tears threaten. Most often when she sees him and sees the mask he wears. He is the Hound once more. And she feels as though she has gone mad, imagining all of it. 

"No, no," she had cried that fateful day, "I cannot, you must take me from this place." She had grabbed at him, but he shook her from his arms with a disregard she didn’t expect.

"Wine," he had yelled, though his eyes were already heavy with it, and moved to the door where Cira was listening, to demand again.

Her tears became a river then as desperation took hold. "I cannot marry Stannis. I can only be with you."

“Quiet,” he had shushed her.

“Sandor,” she pleaded.

“You think she’ll let the future queen walk out of here. She’s got us watched. I told you what will happen.”

“How can you give up?”

He came closer but only to say in a low, dangerous tone, “What would you have me do? Kill everyone in the Red Keep? Do you not understand she can conjure or some fucking shit but I mean, shadows that kill. She killed Tywin Lannister with a demon from her belly. That’s a hard man to kill. Now, I can’t take a piss without a guard in my midst.”

“Why can’t you kill…”

“Sansa,” he had jumped in, “Don’t say it.”

“I can’t do this, Sandor!” She had cried out.

“You think you have a choice. If you refuse, they’ll call you traitor to their fire god or some shit. I won’t see you burn.”

“Please,” she had sobbed, but what he said next cut even deeper, though his tone had softened. “I can’t keep you safe, little bird, not from the red witch and the king of the Seven Kingdoms.” He’d turned and left her then. She had stared at the doorway so long, unblinking until the tears stopped and a sheet of ice slid over her.

She looks up from her embroidery to look at the very doorway now. She knows he’s there, just outside her door. His presence is still like a second part of her that she can’t unfeel. She’s disoriented when the door suddenly opens, his scowl in place as he holds out a piece of paper. “You’re summoned by the Red Woman.” His eyes don’t meet hers, like he’s looking at the wall behind her.

“Thank you, just a moment,” she tells him. “Cira,” she calls to her handmaid, who’s mending some of her garments next to her.

“Yes, m’lady,” she gets up and fixes Sansa's hair back. “Would you like to wear a different dress?”

“This will do,” she tells her.

“You have worn this one for days cooped up in here. A change will do you good, how about this deep blue one?” Cira persuades her from her wardrobe, and she nods, letting her help her into it. It is beautiful, she notes, and the dark color contrasts with her features, but better, matches her thoughts. Deep, dark, endless blue.

“Perfect,” she tells her, though it does have bright burning hearts sparking it with red like rubies and shimmering with gold thread. She understands now why her garments are so fine. They are indeed fit for a queen.

“Yes, m’lady,” Cira pats her arm, and she’s surprised at the knowing comfort her handmaiden has for her.

“Thank you,” she tells her with a small smile.

“You will be okay,” Cira tells her. “You are strong, you fight.” It warms her slightly, makes her think of Shae. Would she have found that courage without her?

She heads to the door, and she’s pleased to have Sandor look at her for once. He says, snide, “All you need is a crown.” It hurts, and she wants to say a host of retorts, but it’s no use. He’s made his choice.

He follows behind her as she makes her way to Melisandre’s chambers. Strange to think she will have Cersei’s chambers soon, if she can’t convince Robb to halt the marriage somehow.

She descends the stair to her chambers. The guard opens for her and soon she hears her purring voice, "Lady Sansa, I hope you are well."

She flinches, not knowing how to answer, but she must lie, "Well, thank you, my lady."

"We need not such formalities between us, come sit." As she takes her place, Melisandre lowers across from her. She says next, "You look well, the dress becomes you."

"Thank you, Melisandre." The name feels strange on her lips, as though a curse or spell spoken. 

She smiles in her way, then says, "I sent a raven to tell the king of the loss of his late wife. Here is the response I received." Melisandre hands her a scrolled message. She tentatively accepts, struck for the first time with the thought that the queen's death was probably not natural. It seems too convenient considering Melisandre is so quick to betroth her to the king. She must have known Selyse would die when she selected her wardrobe. It scares her. What limits does this woman have?

Unfurling the scroll as she keeps herself steady, her eyes fall to the inscribed words. _Tyrell surrender after defeat eminent. Return in a fortnight. Alekyne Florent to secure Highgarden. Robb Stark dead, his wife and child also. Alester Florent has fallen._.. and other names continue but they are a blur as Sansa has already read the name to pierce through to her heart.

Melisandre speaks, "I know this must be hard for you. He is no longer suffering in this world, take heart in that." She'd almost forgot where she was. Why must she always be here in front of her when she learns of the seemingly never-ending tragedy of her family?

"You do know what this means," Melisandre says next, and Sansa looks up, her brows knit at what she intends. "With the death of your brothers, you are now Lady of Winterfell and the North." It sinks in then, who she is now, why Stannis would marry her. But Sandor. Her lips tighten, nearly a grimace she can't contain, pinching her face. But Sandor. Her fate feels sealed, and the hopelessness is overwhelming her.

"Sansa," Melisandre says, drawing her attention back. She looks up to see her eyes trained on hers with a new intensity. "All this I see in the flames. You may not understand, but you have a part to play in a larger purpose. Do not take this lightly. Death marches on the Wall. Dragons soar in the East. Our king, Stannis of House Baratheon, is Azor Ahai reborn. He wields Lightbringer, sword of the new dawn. The Long Night will come again, and the realm of men will be tested."

Sansa kept her gaze, but her mouth falls open in attempt of a response. 

"Sansa, you are to be his queen," she smiles, "and bear him sons."

"I," cannot she wants to say but stops herself, heeding Sandor's warning. 

Melisandre has a look of satisfaction as she rises, going to a small chest. Something shines in her hands as she returns. "If I may," she says, stopping in front of her and holding out a necklace. Sansa stands, and Melisandre takes the rich, gold chain in hand and reaches up to clasp it around her neck. Her hands are hot on her skin, strange to the touch. Sansa looks down to see a ruby, shaped as the heart on the king's breastplate and those that embellish her gown. Her own heart does not burn though, it grows only colder with each will forced upon her. The ruby is warm against her skin and heavy around her neck. She must admit it is beautiful, even though it is a symbol of her fate.

For once, Melisandre appears taken unawares as she draws back. "You are cold to the touch. What ails you?" 

This she can answer with surety, "My constitution is strong. My skin has turned cold is all." She's strangely proud then, proud that she is ice, she is of the North, and nothing this woman can do will change that. 

Melisandre looks her over, her eyes sharp, seeming to consider her. She resumes though and addresses her, "Sansa, you must wear this necklace always. Understand me, that you must always wear it." How adamant she is as she takes her shoulders in hand surprises her. Melisandre looks into her eyes as though trying to find an answer there and frowning. 

"I will," she says, the fearful need to stay in her graces winning out.

She flinches as Melisandre takes her hands, looking to the flames as she speaks, “Lord of Light, cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors,” then turning her gaze back on Sansa, “And all men must serve Him.”

Sansa gulps, taking a deep breath. Melisandre’s meaning is clear to her. As Stannis’s queen, she is expected to worship the Lord of Light. Her marriage will not be blessed by the Seven or witnessed by the old gods. No, there will likely be fire, she smiles for half a second, amusing herself. She must cope somehow.

“Be well. Until dusk, Sansa,” Melisandre tells her, releasing her hands.

Sansa dips into a curtsy before leaving, feeling the slight tremble within her from the stress of her meeting, not unusual for seeing the Red Woman.

Sandor, not missing anything as usual, looks curiously upon her necklace and scowls deeper if possible. She keeps her posture upright as she walks ahead of him.

Entering the safety of her chambers, Sansa reaches around her neck, unclasping the necklace and throwing it to her dressing table. She will have to wear it now when she goes out of her chambers, but by the Seven, she will not wear it here.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos POV: Bitterbridge, Meeting of the Bannermen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I have added a Minor Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark tag because the marriage will happen. It will not be a detailed, full relationship - no sex described in other words. I understand if this makes you no longer want to read the story, but it's the plot I chose. There will be a happy Sansan ending, but this isn't meant to be a sweet story - remember the black cells :). We don't always get to be with the one we love, but these two will eventually so take heart in that.

Stannis has taken Bitterbridge as his base near the battlefield, a tower along the Rose Road with its stone bridge spanning the Mander. Bitterbridge is right. Trying to bridge an alliance with the North with their leader gone is a hard road. Wary are they in the castle hall, set apart from Stannis's men after they came to bend the knee. Davos is concerned to see Lady Catelyn seated with her brother and uncle and not the Stark bannermen and women. She appears mourning in black and particularly dour. Stannis holds his place at the high table, and Davos rises from his place next to him to talk to the northmen. He had spoken with the riverlords and reached clear agreement, but they had not lost their great lord.

Roose Bolton intercepts him as he nears and says,"Ser Davos."

"Yes, Lord Bolton."

"I understand Lady Sansa is in the capitol. I give my assistance in her return to the North. My service to his grace."

"Thank you, my lord," he tells him. Davos then moves to address the northmen now that he has them together. "His grace asks you to choose leaders among yourselves for the fight to reclaim the North back from the ironborn and a member for the small council. Your decision is subject to approval."

"I will take the lead to take down these squids," Greatjon Umber stands with a crash of his fist on the table. "We leave tomorrow." Assent is heard around the table. 

"You know the first thing about the ironborn, Umber? The Mormonts have been fighting them off our shores for as long as I can remember," Maege Mormont says from her seat. "And like I see it, I was to go with Ser Robett to retake Moat Cailin by our late king's command, working with Howland Reed."

Ser Robett Glover says, "You know very well Maege and I were to retake Moat Cailin before Robb allied with Stannis. My brother and I welcome support in retaking our home, Deepwood Motte after. Of course, in all this, we defer to his grace." Robett ends with an artful smile. 

"My son can come from the rear to assist in securing Moat Cailin," Roose speaks up from his stance by Davos. "We must have the Karstarks brought back into the fold as well. I have sent word for Ramsay to secure Winterfell in preparation for Lady Sansa."

Robett scoffs, "Oh, have you." He looks to Maege, who holds her tongue, tight-lipped.

"Maege, you aren't the only one, damned wildlings like to overrun my lands," Umber says to her.

"Then go to your lands then," Maege cuts in.

"Thank you," Davos says, trying to break in before it gets worse. "As agreed with Robb Stark, I was to lead a force of the king's men to help retake the North. Considering my role as the Hand of the King, his grace has requested I return to King's Landing. Ser Godfry Farring is chosen by his grace to lead the men in my stead, if acceptable."

"Aye, aye," Umber speaks, "But we will have none of his red god in our midst." Davos follows his line of sight to Ser Godfry with the flaming heart emblazoned on his breastplate, attacking the offerings much as he does his foes, without end. Well, he is a fearsome warrior to aid them, in that he cannot disagree.

"For the small council?" He asks then, and the northerners frown, looking to each other with a lack of interest. 

Maege looks to Ser Robett, but Roose speaks, "I will put myself forward for the North." Lord Umber visibly shrugs. 

Davos says, "I will make the recommendations to his grace."

At that, he returns to his place by Stannis to confer with him. "Your grace, the northmen are split on who will lead in driving out the ironborn."

"Then have Ser Godfry lead them."

"I have to say, your grace, they will only follow a northmen, though Ser Godfry can lead the vanguard."

"Hmm," Stannis replies in perturbed assent.

"Lady Maege Mormont, Ser Robett Glover, and Lord Jon Umber vie for the role. Lady Mormont and Ser Robett were picked for this role by Lord Stark. For the small council, Lord Roose Bolton is the only one to assent."

"Fine, have the knight lead and have him give the others commands within their army." It doesn't surprise him he'd be biased to the knight. 

"Ser Davos," Stannis addresses him, surprising him. "As you know, my wife has died. Melisandre writes to me suggesting I take the Stark girl to wed. I will announce it this evening."

"Have you spoken to the Tully's?"

Stannis nods, "Ser Richard summoned Lady Catelyn, and I told her."

"Your grace, your will is my command," Davos chooses not to comment.

"Ser Godfry will serve as castellan as my wife will remain in King’s Landing."

"Would you not consider a northman? Lady Sansa may prefer…" 

"No, only a man loyal to me. Her claim becomes mine when we marry." Stannis gives him a dismissive look.

"Aye, your grace."

"It is settled."

Stannis stands then, his men going silent as the hall follows. "My bannermen, houses of the Riverlands and of the North, I announce my betrothal to Lady Sansa of House Stark." Some murmuring comes from the northmen, their faces hard. He looks to see Lady Catelyn looking impassive. Stannis's bannermen raise their cups and tankards in response. Davos holds up his cup as well, about to speak the Baratheon house words, but Ser Godfry stands from his place, raising his tankard.

“May the Lord of Light cast his light upon your your marriage and grant you many sons,” Ser Godfry says and many stand with them, their hands on their breastplates. Stannis gives them a stiff nod, taking his cup of wine and drinking with them. No such refrain comes from the other houses, and an uneasiness settles over the hall.

Stannis continues, "Ser Davos will continue to serve as Hand of the King. I name Ser Richard Thorpe as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I appoint Ser Brynden Tully and Lord Roose Bolton to serve on the small council for the Riverlands and the North. In the Reach, Lord Florent I name Lord of Highgarden to marry Lady Margery Tyrell. In the North, Ser Godfry will lead the vanguard with the northern host against the ironborn under Ser Robett Glover's command. Ser Godry will serve as castellan at Winterfell and oversee repairs to the fortress." More murmuring rumbles from the back where the northmen sit. Stannis says further, "Upon my return, a force will be sent to retake Harrenhal from the Mountain. The new house of Casterly Rock will be chosen at a later time."

That about sums it up, Davos thinks as Stannis retakes his seat and the ruling sinks in around the room. Ser Godry looks pleased, he can tell. Davos does not know what to think of Stannis's betrothal to Lady Sansa. She is barely more than a child, but she does now claim Winterfell. He grimaces, Melisandre probably saw all this in her fires and has been scheming all along. The poor girl, caught in her web. She only wants to go back to her family. At least she will stay with the princess, but he sighs, their relationship will be more complicated with her as queen to her father.

Davos returns to his chambers in the tower only to see Ser Brynden and Lady Catelyn waiting for him. He sighs again, knowing this will be trying.

“Ser Brynden, Lady Catelyn, how may I serve you,” he addresses them and ushers them into his small solar, if you can even call it that.

Catelyn starts, “How can he outright claim my daughter? He could have at least discussed it further with me and my brother and uncle instead of claiming her thus. He would not hear me.”

“You believe I have some influence in this matter? Stannis, King of the Iron Throne, announced it right here, this night at the feast, and he does not go back on his word,” Davos points out.

Both Tullys frown, frustrated at what they consider a slight from his grace.

“This is the work of Lady Melissandre, the red priestess,” he tells them, regretting his meddling already.

Catelyn’s mouth tightens in anger, “My own daughter.”

“She will be queen, Lady Catelyn,” Davos points out.

“There is that,” Catelyn says, exhaling. “She had wanted to be queen.”

“There is another matter, Ser Davos,” Ser Brynden says. “Ser Wendel Manderly, in service to Lady Catelyn the day of the battle, sought out Robb Stark and says he witnessed a Frey soldier attack him. I saw his body. That sword came from behind.”

“The Freys must pay for what was done,” Lady Catelyn speaks up.

“Do you have a witness to a particular man? You cannot blame the entire house.”

“Oh yes, I can,” Catelyn says.

“Cat,” Brynden says to halt her. “I looked into the guards posted for Lady Talisa. They were supposed to be Glover’s men, but we found them. They were not alive. Whoever did this, and we believe the Freys are guilty, their host has left ahead of my nephew, this was a concerted attack.”

“Who have you told of this?” Davos questions.

“Lord Edmure and Lord Blackwood, and of course, Ser Wendel is in our confidence,” Lady Catelyn informs him. “I plan to speak with Ser Robett and Maege Mormont.”

“As you will, but more evidence is necessary to determine the culprits, even if they are of House Frey,” Davos tells her. Still, the murder of Robb Stark, if it is true, must be accounted for.

“I will not let this rest, Ser Davos,” Catelyn speaks, her eyes wide to express her earnestness.

A whine outside the door and a larger growl draws their attention. Lady Catelyn presses a hand to her temple in pain, her eyes closed. Ser Brynden goes to the door, opening it and there is Grey Wind entering the small solar.

“Is he your charge now, Lady Catelyn?” Davos smirks to her, though he shies away from the wolf.

“I have taken charge of Robb’s belongings, and he has stayed close since we sent the boat with him down river.” Catelyn looks away from him as she finishes, and he’s surprised to see the wolf move near to her at this. “I will take him to Sansa, and hopefully we will be able to return him to the North.”

“He’ll find his way,” Brynden says, putting a hand to the beast.

“We will see,” Lady Catelyn says.

“I cannot offer you more at the moment,” Davos says in conclusion, looking at both of them.

Catelyn nods, taking her uncle’s arm as they withdraw, the wolf trailing behind them. As though he doesn’t have enough worries, Davos considers.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV: Riverlands II

"Watch it," Arya snaps at Gendry as his horse shies, sending her reeling as she tries to stay on. Brienne had demanded she travel with her, but both of them had to be blinded on the way out of Hollow Hill as the brotherhood called their hideout. 

They make their way slowly through their hidden paths in the woods until reaching a road to Riverrun, and they camp that night. Brienne stays close to her, keeping the Kingslayer bound.

“Your mother will be happy to see you, Lady Arya,” Brienne says to her.

“Don’t call me a lady,” she says back, paying more attention to putting out her bedroll more than her.

“She sent me with Ser Jaime to retrieve you and your sister after what happened at Winterfell. Have you heard of that?” She asks her.

Arya looks up now at her. “I heard something about it being sacked in one of the inns. Is it true? Was it taken?”

Brienne’s face draws in, and Arya’s gut tightens. Brienne tells her with compassion in her scrunched eyes that are bluer than even her mother’s, “Yes, Arya, the castle was attacked and overtaken by Theon Greyjoy leading a band of ironborn.”

“Theon!” Arya shrieks over her as soon as Brienne said the name. “How?”

“Your brother, Robb, had sent him to the Iron Islands to forge an alliance from what I understand, but he betrayed him.”

“No, no,” Arya says, shaking her head. Another name for her list.

She looks up to see Brienne’s lips thin, her eyes heavy with more to it. “What?” She asks her, demanding, not wanting to be kept in the dark.

“Going to tell her about her brothers?” The Kingslayer says in Brienne’s pause.

“What?” Arya asks louder, as Brienne sends a harsh look to him.

Brienne speaks before the Kingslayer can. “Your brothers are thought to have been killed.”

“Bran and Rickon?” She asks, not sure what to think it stuns her so.

“Yes,” Brienne says.

“Thought to?” Arya narrows her eyes at her.

“Two bodies of an age with the boys were found burned aloft in the yard,” Brienne looks down from her.

Arya’s eyes go wider as it sinks in, Theon killed her brothers. Bran and little Rickon that he saw born and start to grow up. It makes no sense to her. She stares unblinking at Brienne saying nothing.

“Arya,” Brienne starts, about to stretch out a hand, but Arya gets up and walks over to the others, tucking this away somewhere in her.

She picks up a bow and starts shooting arrows, getting Anguy to practice with her. "Another day's travel and we'll be there by the start of dusk,” he tells her.

"Let me carry a bow tomorrow," she asks, her tone more somber than she intended. He looks a little surprised down at her but then looks at the other brothers, busy around the camp, before nodding to her.

Laying down for the night, she keeps the bow next to her, wishing she had needle still strapped to her side. Then she says the names. Joffrey, Cersei, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Polliver, The Hound, Theon Greyjoy.

She wakes in the morning to the sharp, piercing bray of a horse and the sound of bloodshed. Quick, she grabs her bow and quiver and runs into the wood. The brotherhood are taken by surprise, men in red. Thoros is slayed before her, a sword to the back from a rider. Anguy is backing up with his bow before being rode down by another. It's a small party, but the element of surprise is enough to even the odds.

She glances over to see Brienne get a sword to Jaime then narrowly avoid a rider's sword. He circles back for her, missing Arya there tucked up against a tree. She draws her bow, aiming at the man, but before she can release it, she sees Brienne's sword pierce through to the back of him in a solid thrust, her height an advantage. As the man falls from his horse, that is when she sees him. His ugly face, Polliver. She finds the glint of Needle at his waist, and then trains her bow at him, steady, aimed at his neck exposed. His horse he pushes toward Brienne as she releases the arrow, so it only grazes his shoulder, protected by armor. His eyes search for the archer, landing above her and that's when she feels the hand hauling her up on a horse. No, no, she thinks as she twists, pushing away with all her might. No, anything but Harrenhal. 

"Stop it," she hears a voice she knows too well and looks up to see Jaime Lannister. He holds onto her in a vise grip and slings her over the saddle.  She doesn't let go of her bow despite the manhandling. As he clears the fight, Arya glances back to see Brienne kneeling and panting before Polliver, and quick as lightening, she sees Lord Beric’s sword catch his before the Kingslayer has turned onto the road and all sight of them is lost. Soon they're galloping back the way they came at a breakneck pace to escape. 

The punishing movement overtakes her, and she cries out for relief. Jaime finally slows to pull her back up seated, so she kicks him to slide off. The abuse doesn't faze him as he wraps an arm around her, the pommel of Brienne's second sword pressing into her gut. His other hand holds the reins taut as he kicks the horse back into a gallop, riding with ease and confidence despite the circumstance. 

They continue for a while until he slows and turns onto the brotherhood's hidden trail that she's surprised he can recognize. At a brisk trot, they weave their way through. As paths cross, she notices he's following those pointing southeast. She knows now where he's taking her. 

As the night comes upon them, he finally stops, the horse pushed too far in her mind. A canopy of a great oak provides cover, good if it rains. Before he moves from the horse, he’s binding her with what’s left of the rope Brienne had used on him.

“Why’d you even take me?” She asks, berating.

“Thought you might be useful.” He says in a jesting tone.

“Useful?” She says as if she's bit into a bad apple.

“Seeing as my family’s at war with yours, you could be useful. Prisoner exchange.” He dismounts, taking her down next. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t take an opportunity to escape Riverrun?” He says with a smirk.

“We have no food.” She says next, her stomach in pain from missing meals all day.

“There’ll be an inn. Plus you got a bow.”

“Do you have coin?”

“The Lannister name has coin.”

She scoffs, Lannisters think they own the world.

“Make a fire if you know how,” he tells her as he pulls off her quiver, looking over the bow he took from her. “It’ll do.”

“Anguy made it,” she says, defensive, remembering seeing him this morning. He is gone. Maybe they’re all dead. She gets to work on the fire, pulling out a small knife she’d taken to whittle some wood down to get it going.

“Come to this tree,” he says, going to tie her up while he hunts she assumes.

“Not much left in these parts,” she says, “You think you can do better than me.”

He laughs then, deeply, looking at her with amused joy.

“A bow is not a sword,” she says next.

“It’s never been my weapon of choice but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use them, little Stark,” he smiles at her. You wouldn’t think he was the Kingslayer in his ragged garb and uncleaned person but that look he has gives him away.

She waits what seems like forever until he comes back empty handed and grimacing. Told you, she thinks. He unties her from the tree, grabbing her when she tries to bolt, and shoving her down by the fire. His patience likely thin.

“Fire,” he says, and she starts back at getting it to catch. He’s scratching his nails along a piece of wood in irritation.

“Lose one?” She asks him, wafting the flames up.

“No, missed a bird or two.”

“Only got so many arrows.”

“I picked them up,” he says with a glare at her.

“I met your father,” she says to him.

“In King’s Landing? I don’t remember him…” He looks at her curiously.

“In Harrenhal,” she cuts him off.

“Harrenhal?”

“Before he left for King’s Landing I guess. I was his cupbearer. He didn’t know who I was,” she says, some of her pride in that seeping through.

“Really,” he gives her a smirk, pretending to be impressed. She grabs a stick and throws it at him.

“I don’t know why I even said anything,” she says, turning away from him.

He shifts toward the little fire. “I’d made it near there with Brienne to the Inn at the Crossroads where we found out Stannis had taken King’s Landing. She turned back to Riverrun then.” She can nearly feel his mood shift, too, at the words. She has no pity for his sister or him, least of all Joffrey. “Who was there? Do you remember?” He asks.

“Ser Gregor Clegane, he is castellan now. Ser Amory Lorch was thrown into the bear pit by Vargo Hoat and the Brave Companions.”

“The Brave Companions, I thought…”

“They turned on your father and seized Harrenhal. I left during that time.”

“They just let you go?”

“That is for me to know,” she turns to glare at him.

He laughs, then sighs. “So the Mountain took it back.”

“Yes.” She plays in the dirt a little before feeling the need to say what it was to be there. What being a Lannister represents. “All of them are the worst of the worst. At least when your father came, they stopped torturing someone every day.” Remembering how she feared for Gendry still takes the breath out of her. “The Bloody Mummers they call the sellswords under Vargo Hoat, and they’re no better. If my brother knew them, he wouldn’t have had them turn for the North. At least a lot of them killed each other. Still, the Riverlands are not any better off.” She then levels at him, “That is what you are, you are Lannister, so you are every one of those men. My father wouldn’t have men like that serve him.”

She can tell she has unsettled him, but he easily lets it slide off him, telling her, “There is no honor in killing another man either way.”

“I’m not talking about death. Life is what they make suffer.”

The Kingslayer frowns over at her. “Well, I’m tired.”

“Hard to sleep on an empty stomach,” she says.

“Aren’t you full of delight?” He says sarcastically, and then wraps the length of her rope around his arm before laying down on the moss. She follows suit, turning away from him.

She starts to recite to recite the names, but he interrupts her, “What are you saying? You said my sister and Joffrey.”

“Yes,” she says, not wanting to explain to him and not because she doesn’t want him to know he plans to kill them.

“Why?” He says with a scoff.

She exhales hard, “Names of the people I will kill.”

“Say them all now,” he says with a snicker.

“Joffrey, Cersei, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Polliver, The Hound, Theon Greyjoy,” she says, adding, “Jaime Lannister.”

“Me?” He laughs harder. “You plan to kill my whole family? How do you plan on doing it? Also, I’d love to hear how you’ll take the Mountain down.”

“I will, one day,” she says, “Now shut up.”

“You were the one still gabbing on about who you’re going to kill,” he laughs again.

“Just shut up.”

“Fine.”

The next morning isn’t even better from how sore she is from both riding and sleeping on the ground. Her stomach is worse, food is everything to her. Getting back on the horse, he takes a slower pace as they wind through the trees, pressing the horse into a trot on straighter paths. By midday, they chance on a branch of the Blackwater Rush that she drinks from greedily. Using an arrow to get a fish, she pulls out a knife to fillet it, and they both eat of it raw.

They continue on towards King’s Landing, following the river to the Gold Road, the Kingslayer says. They’re nearly there he tells her when they cross paths with a band of men crossing a bridge over the river where a small inn sits that Jaime was going to attempt offering promised Lannister gold for provisions. She had hoped it would work, growing tired of only fish, raw or roasted.

Jaime had put his hood over him, much like he’d been at the Inn of the Kneeling Man, and asked them if they were coming up from the Gold Road. One of them looked at him, then whispered to his companion, before saying, “Ser Jaime Lannister? We heard you were in the Riverlands, didn’t we?” He looks to his other companions who nod in assent.

“Escaped,” the Kingslayer smiles up at them as Arya scowls. Fucking Lannisters, really.

They shuffle into the inn and are treated to hot stew. Fish stew unfortunately but still better than anything she’s tasted in days. He explains her and tells them he’s headed to his father. That’s when their faces turn grim.

“Thought you would’ve heard. Lord Tywin was killed. By his own brother, if you can believe it.”

“Kevan,” Jaime says, “I can’t.” He blinks at the men, saying nothing.

“Not to add more,” the man says, “but Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen were killed by the red witch.” This blow clearly strikes him to Arya’s eyes though he doesn’t seem to change at all. There’s several names off her list, she thinks to herself.

“We were heading back to the Westerlands but the Young Wolf has swept through there, taken Casterly Rock. We’re heading to Harrenhal, hoping to join up with the Mountain to take what’s left.”

She can see his wheels start to turn despite the fact his house is crumbling around him. Then he speaks the fateful words, “I’ll go to Harrenhal with you. We’ll take back what’s ours.”


	21. Chapter 21

The road has been long, her dresses well worn and her metal tested as they enter King's Landing. Catelyn rides with her uncle and Ser Wendel for Edmure has returned to Riverrun and the northern host headed, well, north. They take the steep road winding up to the Red Keep. As they come through the heavy gate, she notices the Court is out to greet the returning victors. 

She scans for Sansa until she sees her aloft on the steps to the Throne Room. Their eyes meet, and she smiles to see her Tully eyes looking back at her. But then Catelyn takes her in, and the blue of her eyes is lost in a sea of red that does not become her. Her eyes flit to the matching deep red next to her daughter and rise to see the red priestess. What is this? She thinks as her face likely displays her confounded displeasure.

Still, she's beautiful, her daughter. A woman now, the cut of her dress marks her developing figure, and her hair is refined to the southern style that highlights her elegant neck. She would rival Cersei Lannister if she were alive and is certainly a contrast to the strange beauty of the woman next to her. Looking at her now, she wonders what must lurk between the Red Woman and Stannis, if hushed rumor is true. Particularly now as the king has dismounted and walked toward the priestess. She bows slightly, speaking to him before she gestures to the entrance to the Throne Room. Stannis strides in with two of his kingsguard behind him, the doors opening before him, and he hasn’t spared a glance to his betrothed curtsied low next to the Red Woman. Proud as she is of her daughter’s courtesy, the exchange unsettles her.

Brynden is off his horse, and Ser Wendel helping her down, but before she can reach her daughter, looking at her with hope, the priestess tugs her elbow to enter with her. She will have to wait for her reunion. A hulking figure follows after Sansa, cutting off her view of her daughter, and her uncle leans toward her to say, “What is the Hound doing behind your daughter?”

“The Hound?” She says in shock to him, somewhat recognizing the man. “I do not know.”

Entering the Throne Room, Stannis has taken his place, Ser Davos on one side and the Red Woman with Sansa on the other. They take their place near to the Iron Throne, and once the hall is settled, Ser Davos announces the king’s titles and begins to call bannermen before Stannis, who bestows titles upon them. At the end, Catelyn watches, unnerved, as the Red Woman takes Sansa and presents her daughter to Stannis. Sansa curtsies deep, rising as Stannis makes a slight gesture with his hand.

“If I may be so bold, my king,” the priestess speaks, “I would propose the marriage take place in a fortnight and two days hence.” The specific day surprises Catelyn, and she can see her daughter tense further. Stannis merely nods and gestures with his hand, dismissing them.

Sansa looks to her as she turns and heads out of the Throne Room, the Hound coming in step behind her. The King withdraws soon after with the Red Woman at his side.

Lady Catelyn looks to her uncle, communicating they will go to her daughter now as they leave the Throne Room. They do not have to go far as they clear the door, and her daughter is receiving knights from the battle, bowing to their soon-to-be queen. Sansa looks over and smiles to her, and it warms her heart.

Catelyn comes to her, and Sansa extends her hand, “Mother.”

Catelyn takes it in both hers, “Sansa,” her eyes flit down to them, the cold edge to them surprising her, but her eyes returning to Sansa. They just look at each other for a moment, enjoying the sight of each other after so long, after so much has befallen their family. Despite the joy, she can feel the deep sadness in her eyes, too, just like in hers most like.

Brynden then touches her elbow, which serves to pull her out of it. “Your uncle, Ser Brynden,” she introduces him, and Sansa curtsies with a smile to her uncle. “And Ser Wendel Manderly.”

She can see her daughter steel herself as she turns, “May I present my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.” The man looks sour, his eyes flitting to Sansa before looking at the three of them with a scowl. His horrid scars making her turn away her gaze. Catelyn can’t seem to comprehend what her daughter has said. This is the Lannister Hound, how is he not a prisoner? Sworn shield of her daughter?

“Sansa?” She questions her daughter, her bewilderment plain.

“I will explain, Mother, please come to my chambers as yours are prepared.”

She nods and follows with her daughter  

Ser Wendel and the Hound stay outside Sansa’s chamber, and Ser Brynden heads to check on their quarters. Catelyn sits down with her daughter. A questionable looking handmaiden brings in tea and a sample of cheese, fruit, bread, and cakes.

“A tea, Lady Melisandre has shared with me,” Sansa smiles to them, and Catelyn sips the warm, spiced brew.

“The Lady Melisandre is a friend of yours?” Catelyn asks.

Sansa’s eyes widen slightly, and she picks up her tea as she answers, “Of course.”

“A curious necklace,” Catelyn points out.

“A gift from my betrothed,” Sansa tells her, the word spoken joyless. “I will be moving to the queen’s chambers soon.”

“That will be lovely,” Catelyn says to her, concerned about the distance in their dialogue. Sansa looks at her strangely at that, so Catelyn says, “Sansa, please speak freely with me. I am your mother.”

Sansa’s eyes tear up slightly at this, and she rises to her dressing table. She sees the necklace slip off onto the table, and Sasna returns with a shawl. She stretches it out before her, and she sees the wolves embroidered. “I embroidered direwolves for those we have lost.” And points to the different ones, saying who they represent. “This is for you. I added them to a dress for myself. I had wanted to wear it today.” She looks at her mother now, the word “but” hanging in the air, and Catelyn’s heart breaks further. She understands now. Her daughter is only more subtle now than before, likely the Court's doing.

Her hands roam over the fine garment, the silk white as snow with the grey wolves standing out. Sansa retakes her seat, and Catelyn tells her, “It is beautiful, Sansa, I will treasure it. I want you to know, Stannis did not even consult with me on your marriage. Robb had past, and he came and told me he would take you to wife. If you ask it of us, your uncle and I will do what we can.”

“There’s no stopping her, Mother,” Sansa says barely above a whisper. “I wish there was,” she says even softer.

"Who? The Red Woman."

"Yes, Melisandre. She saw me have his sons in the fires. She's had this plan all along," Sansa tells her, downcast. 

She drops her tone, “I can see now Melisandre intends to rule as queen over you.” Sansa nods, and Catelyn asks, “The fires?"

"It's how she sees visions, by looking into the fires. I have to participate in lighting the fires every evening to burn through the night until dawn."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors, they say." Catelyn narrows her eyes in thought. This woman has extended too much influence over her daughter.

"Yes. I have to be a follower if I am to be his queen," she looks over to her, stricken. "She forced me to look in the flames once, and I saw Winterfell burning, before I even knew of what happened. By Theon. And Brand and Rickon.” Her daughter begins to cry, and Catelyn reaches out for her hands, still unnerved by their acute coldness.

“He will pay for this,” Catelyn tells her. “Bolton says his bastard-born son may have him.”

Sansa nods, thinking of something she can tell but keeping it to herself.

“You will be queen though, Sansa,” Catelyn tries to shed some light on the situation. Sansa’s eyes harden at her, surprising her. “What are your house words?” She asks, raising her brows.

“Winter is coming.”

“And your other house?”

“Family. Duty. Honor.”

“You are Lady of Winterfell, the most highborn lady in the Seven Kingdoms, this is who you are. You are the North and the Riverlands, and as queen, you can secure the interests of both. See your people survive the hard winter coming after this long summer.”

Sansa shakes her head, her face pinching. “I don’t want this.”

“It’s who you are, Sansa, though I do not wish Stannis on you,” Catelyn frowns. “I know you had wanted to marry the prince.”

Sansa looks to her now and shakes her head again, “I did not know then how Joffrey would torment me, Mother. At least, I do not have him now, but the Court is still the Court.”

“Torment you? The prince? We heard some reports…”  
Sansa cuts in, “I had pleaded for Father’s life. He had agreed to send Father to take the black, but he killed Father right in front of me. He made me look at Father after. It was awful, Mother. I still have scars from being beaten.”

“Oh, my dear child, you have me now. I am not going anywhere. Ser Brynden will be on the small council, and Ser Wendel, you can trust.”

Sansa agrees with a nod, casting a look towards the door and making Catelyn remember her “sworn shield.”

“Sansa, how can that man be your sworn shield? He should be thrown into the black cells to rot.”

Sansa’s eyes are cold, her chin heightened as she turns to her. “Sandor Clegane kept me safe when I was alone here. I was nearly taken by the mob in the streets after they sent Myrcella to Dorne. He didn’t have to come for me. Joffrey had not ordered him to, had not ordered anyone to, in fact, the opposite. He swore his sword to me the night of the Blackwater. Stannis did throw him in the black cells, but he has been restored as my sworn shield. Do not question him.”

She shakes her head at her daughter. “You do not understand, Sansa, a man like that. He is not fit company for a highborn maiden. I hope he has not been untoward with you. I can remove him from your service.”

“When Robb did not exchange me for Ser Jaime, he is the man who kept me safe. I trust him with my life. You will do nothing of the sort.”

“Sansa, you cannot.”

“I do, and you will not question it, Mother.”

Catelyn sighs deeply, her lips pursed at her daughter. She has grown much since she last saw her, and not only in body, to be so bold. What has he done to her daughter? She can barely consider thinking of it.

“Winterfell is to have Ser Godfry Farring as castellan?” Sansa looks to her, likely hearing it from Stannis in the Throne Room.

“Yes. He is a follower of the red god. Brynden says he is a fierce fighter.” It’s as clear to her as she sees it in Sansa’s eyes – Stannis considers Winterfell his already, not Sansa's. His lack of regard for her he made clear today.

“Your wedding will be soon. Do I need to help with your maiden’s cloak?”

Sansa gives her a look. “There will be no maiden’s cloak. Melisandre will decide what I wear for the temple ceremony.”

“Temple? Oh,” Catelyn reacts, and then another wave of displeasure hits her. Her daughter’s marriage won’t even be blessed by the Seven or the old gods.

“Your wedding night,” Catelyn starts, but Sansa interrupts her, “No, no, Mother. I don’t want to talk about it.” She stops, her lips tightening, and her worries heighten.

“I will stay here in King’s Landing as long as you need me,” she tells her daughter who gives her a sad smile.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“I hope you can be happy, Sansa. We will find your sister.”

“I can’t be happy, Mother. Not anymore.” Looking away from her toward the window, seeming lost to her. “Arya is lost.”

Catelyn sighs, then decides to tell Sansa about her brother. “I know you know we lost Robb at the Bitterbridge Battle, but you do not know that it was not at the hands of an enemy. Or rather a hidden foe.”

“What is this, Mother?”

“Ser Wendel here with me saw a Frey put a sword in his back during the battle. I will not stop until they pay for what was done. They killed his wife and child and her lady’s maid.”

“I did not know,” Sansa is visibly stunned. “I only knew Robb had…had fallen. I wanted him to be here, to have Winterfell like it should be, not me, and maybe he could convince Stannis to let me go home.”

“I know, Sansa. He said he would’ve wished to see you again. He told me before the battle.”

Sansa nods, spreading her hands out on her skirts.

“I may need your help to insure we are able to see justice for Robb, his wife, and child.”

“I don’t know what I can do.”

“I am here now. I will help you, Sansa.” With that, Ser Brynden is at the door, and she rises, Sansa with her and heads to the door.

“A rest will do you good, Mother. And I hope you as well, Ser Brynden,” Sansa says to them before they depart.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV: Leaving King's Landing

The red witch had offered it to him. Hunt down and end Gregor. She’d even convinced Stannis. Sandor knew he couldn’t say no, and she knew it, too. He stands in front of Sansa’s door, knowing she sleeps still and it is awhile before her maid-whore will come. Her mother is with her everyday, and he could have told her by now, but he knew she’s not going to let him go, and he must go. He tries to suppress the memory of the night he came here and touched her sweet body, how much she had wanted him. A familiar ache takes root in him, something he’s come to live with, and why he must leave. Better to die fighting Gregor than follow after her here, like this.

He knocks softly, not hearing her move, but he goes ahead and opens the door. He lights a candle by her bedside and sees her curled up on her side, her hair fanned out over her pillow. She looks like the Maiden when she sleeps, so beautiful and pure. Something so sweet, so good in her. It was one thing to see Joffrey and Cersei pick at it, but damn him for truly hurting her. He should’ve never started this with her, for she’s different now. There’s a sadness within her, a new pallor that chills everything around her. He feels how cold she’s turned, his doing.

He kneels down beside her, taking off his gloves one last time. “Little bird,” he calls her from her sleep. She doesn’t wake, so he ghosts a hand over her shoulder.

Her eyes blink open, and then she jerks slightly, “Sandor?” Then tears immediately start falling from her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He asks her.

“You’re here?” Her hands go out to grab hold of his hands as if he isn’t real.

He frowns, understanding. He pulls one of his hands from her grasp to rub the tears off her cheeks. She’s not sobbing, but the water continues to flow down her eyes in twin streams.

“Sansa,” he starts, what he has to say seizing up within him. How could he leave her? How could he not have her? It’s as though he’s going against his very nature. He’ll be dead soon enough as it is. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“What?” Her eyes scrunch at him, unblinking.

“I’m leaving. I am going with the force to take back Harrenhal from my brother.”

“No, you’re my sworn shield. I have to give you leave.”

“We both know what I am. What happened in this room.”

He sees his words hit her, and the desperation in her take hold. “Sandor, you can’t leave me alone in this. I don’t want this. Find some way to take me with you.”

He’d laugh at her foolishness if it were not for the anguish he feels and sees reflected in her eyes. “Sansa, I’m leaving to kill Gregor.” He grabs at her hand, squeezing it, wishing he could take a piece of her with him. “I won’t be coming back.”

She’s pulling herself up then and wrapping her arms around his neck, shaking and holding on as if her life depended on it. “I love you, Sandor Clegane, and you are not saying goodbye to me. You think I could live knowing I’ll never see you again. I’ll throw myself from the battlements for true then.”

He pulls her back, his anger spiked. He says, harsh, “Don’t you say that. Sansa, don’t even think it.”

“Promise me you will come back to me then,” Sansa pleads.

“I can’t.”

“Sandor,” she cries, pressing herself closer.

“You have your mother now, your uncle, too. You’re safe now. You’ll be queen of the fucking Seven Kingdoms.”

“I need you.”

“I’ll come back, even if I have to have Ser Rolland bring my body back for you.”

“Ser Rolland?”

“Aye, he’s leading it.”

“Thank you,” she looks down, her hands spreading out over his armor as her tears continue. Her watered eyes return to his, and the sadness there tears at him, to think she could care this much. He takes her head in his hand, caressing his thumb over her cheek, committing her to memory as she gazes up at him sadly. He wraps his arms around her next, pressing her into him as he dips his face into her hair, taking in the smell of her one last time.

Back in his chamber, Sandor is going through his belongings, pressing her sewn wolf into his gauntlet. He opens his door to head out to comb Stranger when he sees Ser Davos in his doorway.

“May I come in, Clegane?”

“Aye,” he says, stepping back, giving him a snide look-over. “Speak your peace.”

Davos nods, coming in as Sandor presses the door closed. “Harrenhal will be a difficult stronghold to take, the last of the Lannister force.”

“Aye, I know enough,” Sandor cuts in to further him along.

Davos sighs, “Ser Rolland Storm is taking this command for Stannis to grant him Nightsong and declare him Lord of the Marches. He is the last of the Carons though bastard he be. Legitimizing bastards is not very popular at the moment considering Stannis’s claim.”

Sandor narrows his eyes at him, “Is this why he was left here? No glory in guarding a keep.” He had thought Ser Rolland a seasoned fighter, one a king would keep close.

“In part,” Davos looks him in the eye, and he respects that. “Ser Rolland’s faith in the Warrior is a fierce as he is. A loyal man to the Stormlands, too, but he is no follower of the red god.” Sandor starts to understand. He’s not the only one not intended to survive this fight.

“Aye, I understand. Same for me.”

Davos considers him then, pursing his lips in thought before speaking, “Make sure he survives and not only for my goodwill but for that of our new queen. She will be in need of good men.” He drops to a lower tone, his eyes bulging from the weight of his words, “The Red Woman has only begun with her and to what end.” Davos draws his eyes down, and Sandor feels his chest cave. He’s played right into that red bitch’s hand. What will happen to her if she does not have the sons she’s seen in the fires? A fate like the last queen? Anger rolls through him, and his hands clench. He will kill Gregor, but for spite, he will live to laugh in her face if nothing else.

Davos and him share a look of understanding, and the man heads for the door.

The next morning, he is up before dawn, his armor strapped, his gold and other valuables he takes to his horse as the light comes up. Ser Rolland is there in the stables, and what Davos spoke of comes back to him. He doesn’t really give a fuck whether this man lives or dies, but if it will help the little bird and even better fuck over that red bitch’s plans, then that’s good enough for him. Fires be damned, steel will decide who lives or dies.

Checking over Stranger, he can feel the edge to his horse, likely sensing the coming journey. He leads him out, joining the other men toward the portcullis when he sees the men all looking towards the inner gate. He turns to see the little bird coming towards him and scowls to see her in her pretty white dress for him. It’s not only her but her mother and uncle and guards. Even Shireen, he narrows his eyes, and tugs at Stranger to head towards them.

He frowns at the group of them, he hadn’t planned on seeing her again and not wanting to with an audience.

“Sandor,” he hears her say his name, and his eyes can’t help but lock with hers.

Shireen speaks up beside her, “Good journey to you, Sandor.”

He cuts over to see her and nods slightly, “Princess.”

“I have something for you,” Sansa says next, turning to her side, and her uncle, the Blackfish, steps forward to him and holds out a sword in it’s sheath without a hint of joy on his face. Sandor looks to her, disturbed, he knows what sword this is - Ice, her father’s sword, the Valyrian steel sword of the Kings of Winter.

“Sansa,” he starts.

“I had thought it would be Robb’s,” she tightens her mouth to hold back cries. “There is no one to wield it, and no warrior greater than you. Keep it safe for my house. It is the only protection I have to give.”

He pulls off his own sword, handing it to her other guard, the portly one. Waste of gold for a new hilt and edge. He takes Ice then, gripping the handle. Last time he saw it used was on Ned Stark himself, and he looks at Sansa, who only nods to him without a smile. He wraps his hand around the hilt now, appreciating the simplicity of it. It’s a sword, not some jewelry a woman wears to be dressed up in gold. He draws it then, and he tests the balance of it. Looking at the sword cut the air, the dark, smoke of its blade calls to him. This is what she saw in her fires, that red witch. It’ll take more than visions to slay Gregor, he knows that too well.

He straps the sword to his back and turns to his horse, retrieving a sack of his gold. He comes back to her then and hands her the heavy purse.

“I cannot, Sandor,” she looks to him.

“Keep it safe for my house,” he says, the corner of his lip twitching into a smirk. She smiles then, and the beauty of it assaults him. She takes the purse strings in her left hand and holds out her right to him in a clear gesture.

“Tsk,” he hears her mother say, about to intervene, but he takes her hand in his gloved one, keeping his gaze on her as her smile falters and the tears return at his touch.

“This is not goodbye,” she says, a desperation in her voice.

“No, it’s not,” he tells her, lowering to press his lips to the back of her hand, so frigid. He feels some of the tension fall away from her. As he stands again and releases her hand, he sees a hint of peace come over her, and the tears stop as she regards him with growing confidence. Something is known now between them that this is not the end of them. In that, he will strive to have her as his own and fight the Stranger if he must for that day.

He turns to his horse, stepping in the stirrup and swinging up. He draws Stranger’s reins as the horse turns. “Look for Arya, my sister,” Sansa calls to him, and he steers Stranger back to nod to her. Turning back to the gateway, he catches the hard stare of Sansa’s mother. He snorts to himself, not his troubles for some time, and heads out with the others.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: Wedding Day Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plans for the wedding ended up being two chapters because much like at Joffrey's wedding, there's an opportunity at a royal wedding for more characters to interact - such as representatives from the Eyrie, Dorne, etc., and I wanted to explore that. Again, there is no bedding narrated. The only sex I will describe in this story will be between Sansa and Sandor. There will be little if any relationship-type interaction between Stannis and Sansa. 
> 
> In this chapter, there is a scene where Sansa is naked for a rite performed by Melisandre, just a heads up.

She must have sent out ravens a moon or more ago, Sansa had thought as more and more highborn arrived for her wedding. A pomegranate lies broken on her table, Cira having fussed over those sent over this morning by the Dornish prince, herself being Dornish, and was helping her try it. She doesn’t have much of a taste for the sour fruit, seeds and all. She wonders if Sandor cares for them. She sighs then, her hand tracing the edge of the table. Her mind will flit to him, wonder how he is faring. Sometimes she will feel the pang of his loss in her chest, but the thoughts are mostly a sad reminder to burden her for a moment. Something passed between them though, that day he left, and she no longer despairs. This is her fate now, but she trusts it will not always be. She thinks back to her vision in the flames, the heart tree telling her, “We bear witness.” She takes heart that there is some truth in it, that the old gods see and know and that Sandor and her will be in a godswood together someday.

Today is not that day. She does not know yet what the ceremony entails, but in a way, it is good she won’t have to recite the words of the marriage under the Seven as a lie or join herself to Stannis before the old gods. She could never love Stannis. How could she? He is her father’s age, and even at that, he has not even spared a glance nor spoken to her since his return. It’s not her place to impose on the King on the Iron Throne even if she felt the need, but she expected some notice from her betrothed.

During the entire gift reception yesterday, he had been stoic and perhaps displeased. Even when her uncle’s gift of a simple pie, to the amusement of the entire court, was revealed to be filled with jewels when she took a piece, his grace only appeared to scowl deeper. She’d be better off marrying the Red Woman herself, it seems, considering she is so keen on the match. Even Lord Alekyne was more engaged for better or worse. When the Martell prince, Oberyn, she believes, had presented them with black and gold sand steeds, the king had moved to reject the gift, but she quickly rose and thanked him, stepping out to stroke the pale gold one. She looked back to actually find his stern gaze on her, reproving. Why must he marry her? Does even he do all the Red Woman asks? She kept asking herself these questions all yesterday, and today will likely prove similar.

She recognizes Ser Wendel's knock on the door and is happy to see her mother soon after with a tight smile and her worry for her daughter plain.

“Mother,” she smiles slightly.

"Sansa," she enters and sits with her, "you have everything you need? What can I do?" Mother is already dressed in her new blue dress made for the wedding.

"I've already had my bath, and Cira has started on my hair. Melisandre has my dress, and I am to go to her at midday."

Her mother's face turns sour at the mention of the Red Woman. She remembers her mother arguing with her for a wedding blessed by the Seven. Melisandre had been calm, amused even, "You will find no sept or septon here. The Lord of Light cast his favor upon our king, and all men must serve him."

"You intend to convert all of Westeros," her mother had said as if ridiculous. The steely gaze Melisandre made at her mother pushed her to intervene, distracting Melisandre with her acquiescence to the temple ceremony.

Her mother says to her now, "You cannot, Sansa, you cannot allow her to make you turn from the old gods and the new. The Seven Hells are real." 

"I must, Mother, if I'm to survive as queen. Melisandre says there is only one hell, the one we live in now." She can believe that and hopes it is enough, though it is only hell now without Sandor, Still, this can't be hell if his affection is what the heavens must be. She tells her mother also, "It is better to give her this for she holds great sway with Stannis and may grant us favor." Though she took Sandor from her, at least it was her influence that released him from the black cells and have given him this chance at revenge. Still, she hates her for making this her fate and even reminding her she agreed to marriage, but she has somehow been supportive of her in a strange way, often meeting with her. There is an understanding in her gaze, for she knows of her attachment to Sandor and that somehow brings comfort, to be understood, to not be alone with it. The irony is not lost on her however. Still, she was able to convince her to beg of Stannis an early bride gift from him, Ice, so that she could bestow it upon Sandor. If she did not have a good relationship with her, such aid would be more difficult to come by.

"I wish you would tell me what passed between you and the Hound for you to have him kiss your hand. I saw the direwolf on the cloth coming out of his gauntlet." Her mother's words strike her as if she knew her thoughts. She had not said anything before now about their goodbye.

"Not today," she feels a slight shudder in her, knowing she will give herself to another man tonight. 

"I'm sorry, you're right. Today is enough. I only see your mind go somewhere, and I think he has something to do with it."

"I love him." The words are out of her mouth before she can catch them. She gasps in shock at herself, this day has her out of sorts as though trying to hold back a flood of emotions, some get past her.

"Oh, Sansa," her mother says, sorrowfully, her face pinched, but Sansa can see she believes her. 

"It's true," she says anyways and takes a deep breath. "He was going to take me away. Twice, but first I said no, and then Melisandre intervened. I would've never seen, but I wouldn't be here." She takes another deep breath, looking down. "Don't worry, she knows all of this," she adds.

"Melisandre does?"

"Yes."

"How is he not...?" 

"She saw in the fires he would kill his brother. She also released him from the black cells in exchange for my agreement to marry. I thought it would be Lord Florent at the time, but she knew it would be Stannis even then. She lets him live for my goodwill, I believe. How long, I do not know." Her mother says nothing, trying to comprehend likely. "This is very hard for me. Please understand," Sansa says.

Her mother nods, "Me too."

"I wish father was here to give me away, and I could wear a cloak of grey and white, a blue dress, and there would be a different man."

"I do, too," her mother nods. Just not the Hound, Sansa could add for her.

A knock on the door surprises them. Sansa rises, expecting Melisandre, but it is a man she does not know. 

"Lord Royce," her mother calls him. 

"Lady Sansa, Lady Catelyn, I do apologize for interrupting on this day. My daughter and I have just arrived and carry a missive from your sister who wishes she could attend." He hands her mother the letter.

"We will see you at the wedding, Lord Royce," she dismisses him. He bows and leaves. 

Her mother opens it, reading it quickly. She looks up, telling her, "It is not from Lysa but Petyr Baelish."

Sansa draws a breath in, in shock. "What does he want?"

"He has heard of Robb and his queen and unborn child's death. He has some information concerning the matter."

"Mother, Stannis wants him dead." She shakes her head, knowing how important this is for both of them. Still, Sandor would not trust Littlefinger.

"Let's not trouble ourselves today," Catelyn tells her, and she sees the dismissive gesture for what it is. Melisandre has her spies, Sansa frowns, and her mother had better not forget that.

"I will go to Melisandre now," Sansa tells her mother. "I will go on my own." Her mother sighs but nods and gives her hand a squeeze before leaving.

Sansa goes to retrieve the heart necklace only to find it already around her neck. She must have forgotten to remove it last night. She heads to the door and heads out with Ser Brus at her back. Evidently the queen’s men have become her own, though she knows with whom their true allegiance stands.

After winding down the stair, the guard opens the door, and she enters to see Melisandre smiling. "Sansa," she says to her, and she notices one of the priestesses from the keep temple there with them.

"Melisandre, good day. Priestess," she nods to the other lady.

"Lady Sansa," the priestess bows, the custom from where she hails, she supposes. 

"Come, sit," Melisandre invites her. She enters and takes her typical place as Melisandre pours the tea she has come to favor. Sansa adds her honey as Melisandre asks, "Nervous?"

"Of course," she says, knowing she wouldn't begrudge her that.

"Understandable, but do not fear, my queen." The address makes her eyes flick up from her cup in surprise. "I will see you through today, and I have discussed the course with Stannis. You honor your house in this joining, and I know you will find joy in your sons if not your marriage also. And yes, Stannis has had a crown made for you for today." She takes a deep breath, not knowing she would be crowned as well today.

"I will have to thank his grace."

"Yes, of course. Sansa, there are a few rites I need to perform to insure your fertility. I picked this day with purpose. Will you allow me?"

Rites? She thinks to herself, alarmed. "Why, of course, Melisandre," she answers knowing it does no good for her to refuse. 

"Good, this is Pilar from the temple, and she will assist me. Do not be shy, Sansa, we will need to cleanse and annoint you. And I will need some blood." Blood? She thinks. "Pilar, will you help Lady Sansa undress and take her to the long table."

She seizes up inside but suppresses it, calmly following. She lets her undo her dress, then the woman helps her onto to table covered with cushions and a silk sheet for this purpose likely. Lying on her back she feels exposed and uncertain of what is to come. 

"I bathed," she tells them in regards to the cleansing, and Melisandre smiles at her, but they both start to run a cloth over her skin still. Pilar gasps, and Melisandre tells her, "Yes, she is cold. It's her northern blood. The cold will not touch her, nor will heat." It is strange to be talked of and feel Melisandre's examining eye. She also had not realized she would be resistant to heat or cold, how does she know?

After she’s been cleansed, Melisandre pours a fragrant oil over her body, and then they both begin to slowly rub it into her skin. The earthy smell of it transports her to a forest, and the slow press and pull of their massage eases her completely. Her eyes half-close as she falls into a thick languor from the heady fragrance and gentle tug of her limbs. She’s pulled out of it slightly as Melisandre places her hands over her abdomen, her eyes closed, she chants, “Ano, Ono, Vera, Vita,” and continues on in what she assumes in High Valyrian.

“It glows.” She hears Pilar say, and she feels the heat grow stronger from the ruby on her chest.

“Sit up, and look at the flames, Sansa,” Melisandre tells her, unfazed. She rises slowly, finding the flames hazy in her vision before her. Melisandre is there to hold her up as she presses into her, spreading the oil along her back. Finished, Melisandre runs her hand down her back, resting it on the base as she speaks the chant again. With he rhythm of the words and the warmth spreading through her that she hasn’t felt in so long, she gets lost in.

She wakes to see that she’s been partially clothed and feel the strange sensation of something pulled from her skin.

“You are alright, Sansa,” she hears Melisandre tell her, but her eyes go wide at the slick, black thing she holds and to see another on her skin.

“What is it?” She asks, alarmed.

“Leech for your blood,” Melisandre says as she takes it over to the fire and drops it in the flames. She proceeds to do the same with the other, Sansa cringing as it’s pulled from her skin though there is strangely no pain.

“Why?”

“Come,” Melisandre smiles, and Sansa takes a deep breath and rises, pulling the robe around her, not surprised at the lack of explanation. She stands with Melisandre in front of the flames and gives her her hand. She’s come to tolerate looking into the flames after her time with Alekyne, and though she’s had no visions as before, she can often see Sandor’s face reflected there, clear as can be with his eyes burning into her. She must look devout, staring into the flames with tears falling from her eyes in the temple at night.

“Lord of Light, I bring to you Sansa Stark, Nissa Nissa come again, consort to Azor Ahai. Cast your light upon her and quicken her womb for the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Melisandre then turns to her, “Are you well, Sansa?”

She’s a little shaky, “I’m alright.”

“Good,” she smiles. “I will take you to the queen’s chambers now as they are yours from this day forward.”

It’s strange to enter into what were Cersei’s chambers for so long. She remembers coming her the day her moonblood came upon her, the talk that ensued. She prefers Sandor as an advisor over Cersei Lannister, she knows that. The chamber is changed though the colors vary little. There are burning disks of fire aloft as in Melisandre’s chambers and deep red drapes throughout, including a coverlet on the bed embroidered in high relief with the burning heart, stags and direwolves alternating in the pattern behind.

What truly catches her eye is the dress set up in the chamber, she knows it is what she will wear. Cira comes up next to her then, smiling at her and clearly enthused. Sansa looks to Melisandre who is watching her.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Sansa tells her, and it is in truth, despite all it symbolizes. Beautiful creamy white silk dress, bejeweled and flowing. It is enveloped in a rich, deep red cloak, dramatic in its style. She will be a vision, the Red Queen she’s already heard herself named, and this cloak will cement her epithet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference the "queen's men," and if you aren't familiar, they refer to those followers of the red god within Stannis's army since Selyse was the one to convert first from what I understand. Ser Godfry sent to Winterfell in this story is one, and Ser Richard Horpe, commander of the Kingsguard here, is another as well as Ser Brus in this chapter. Ser Rolland Storm and also Lewys from awhile ago are king's men.
> 
> Also, Sansa's dress is an ensemble by Alexander McQueen.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV: Wedding Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said in the last chapter, no bedding is narrated in this chapter either.
> 
> Also, shout-out to the awesome person who made the fanart of Sansa being crowned that I use here. Thanks! The red cloak pictured is actually the same Alexander McQueen one from last chapter's collage.

Strange it is to be seated between Stannis and Melisandre at her wedding feast as dusk approaches. Evidently, it is Melisandre’s custom to sit next to the queen as she did with Selyse, and Sansa wonders if she will take her place if she is ill as well. She would’ve rather had her mother next to her, but they are separated by Melisandre.

The ceremony had not taken long. She had ridden her new golden horse through the streets to the Great Temple, her red cloak sprawling behind her. Stannis had chosen to ride his own horse, leaving Melisandre to take the black sand steed and ride by her side. The Red Woman and the Red Queen, which is which? She thinks to herself with some humor.

They had stood in front of a large basin of fire, Melisandre praying to the Lord of Light to cast his light upon them and other such statements she could barely recall. She read a scrolled prayer in Valyrian, then fed it to the fire. Joining Sansa and Stannis’s hands, Melisandre brought them above the fire where the flame could lightly lick their skin. Sansa had peeked up at Stannis when he flinched to see him disgruntled, but it could have been the entire event itself that upset him. There was no kiss oddly to her but thankfully, even when Melisandre announced them King and Queen, Chosen of the Lord of Light. Stannis then handed Melisandre the crown his kingsguard carried, and Sansa had knelt there in the temple. As leader of the faith, Melisandre had placed the crown on her head and blessed her. She had looked up to find Stannis’s gaze only to see it directed at Melisandre. They speak without words, she has noticed.

Seated at the high table, they receive guests, and Lord Bolton approaches with a very large woman. He bows, “Your grace, you honor the North in your chosen bride. May I introduce my betrothed, Lady Walda of House Frey.” Sansa’s eyes become alert at that name, and she turns to her side to find her mother’s shrewd gaze directed at Bolton.

“Well met, Lady Walda,” she says, looking at the young woman. She can imagine how she must feel, Lord Roose is of an age with Stannis. Still, seems an odd choice of bride, considering he likely had his pick of Frey daughters.

“Thank you, your grace.” The lady curtsies.

“For your enjoyment, I have a half-wolf pup for you, Lady Sansa. From the North, bred with my son’s hounds,” Roose announces, and a servant behind him brings forth the little pup on a lead.

She gasps, standing, as his servant leads the pup to her. “Thank you very much, Lord Bolton,” she says.

“My pleasure,” he responds with a thin smile before bowing and moving away with his lady. She is taken by the little creature and pulls it into her lap. It has adorable circles around its eyes as if it’s always sad and has splotches of black, brown, and dark gray over it’s back, all white underneath, still soft with its puppy fur.

Stannis must have communicated something to Melisandre because she is soon leaning over, “Won’t you have the little wolf on the floor while we receive guests, my queen,” she says smoothly. Sansa understands, letting it go and holding its lead, she was just so happy for a moment. “A male,” Melisandre points out. “Good, it will bond to you. Did you know your late brother’s direwolf has been seen at the edge of the Kingswood by the guard?”

“Really?” she brightens a bit, feeling the little wolf bite playfully at her hand down petting him.

“Yes,” she smiles with a hint of amusement.

“I will have to meet him.”

“Your grace and the beautiful Queen Sansa,” she hears a silken voice and looks up to see the Dornish prince and a beautiful woman next to him with calculating eyes. “From House Martell, may your red god bless you with many children and fire in your hearts for each other.”

She swallows hard, trying to keep her eyes from widening at his statement. “Thank you, Prince Oberyn,” she speaks up after Stannis seems to scowl only deeper.

“I see you have the Riverlands and the North with you, even in your queen, and have taken both the Westerlands and the Reach. I ask you, do you consider Dorne your kingdom as well?” 

“Yes, I do as I sit the Iron Throne,” Stannis responds, stoic as ever.

“My brother may only want peace with you, but that is not how the Dornish see it,” he says with a smile. Sansa is unnerved at the public nature of this serious subject masquerading as a casual conversation. “If it were not for your gracious and beautiful queen,” he smiles to her, “there would be little to tempt me otherwise.” The way he said the word tempt made her even more uncomfortable, then confused to see the amused smile on his companion’s face. He would’ve been greatly offended if she didn't intervene to accept the horses. How could he refuse a gift from a great house such as the Martells? The King’s lack of regard for honoring proper customs for those under him is unwise in her opinion. He can’t even spare much for herself, his queen, as it is.

“Prince Oberyn,” Melisandre cuts in with a charming smile, drawing his attention.

“The red priestess, oh beauty, from where do you hail?”

“From Asshai, prince.” At Meslisandre’s answer, Sansa can see a marked change in how Oberyn considers her, wary and on guard compared to his lax stance with Stannis. Smart man, she muses. Melisandre continues, “I ask that while you are here in King’s Landing, please join the King’s Small Council, if you wish. It is fortuitous you have come to represent House Martell and Dorne at the royal wedding for your contribution to the Small Council on behalf of Dorne would be welcome, needed truly,” then she looks to Stannis.

“Aye, every region should be represented there,” Stannis says, seconding Melisandre’s suggestion.

“I look forward to it,” he says, glancing at Sansa again before leading his lady away, apparently satisfied for now.

As she sips of the fine wine offered, Sansa is disheartened, knowing that Shireen is likely in her tower. It has been somewhat uncomfortable between them since the betrothal was announced. They both know it’s Melisandre’s doing, but much remains unspoken between them. Shireen had given her a beautiful silver and weirwood-inlaid sewing cabinet and congratulated her, but she could hear the flatness in her tone. They were meant to be friends, ladies at Court together, not be related so strangely. She is now her stepmother in truth. Her children will be Shireen’s half-siblings even. She must find a way to keep her friendship. At least she had come to say goodbye to Sandor.

The man from earlier that day steps forward to the table next. “Your grace, Queen Sansa,” he addresses them with a bow.

She remembers his name now, saying, “Lord Royce,” and he brightens at his name called. Stannis has turned to converse with his Hand, but she gives Royce her attention.

“From your aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn, a talented harpist and singer, Marillion. Uhmm,” he starts, “May the Lord of Light bring joy to your union and to the realm through it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she responds with a polite smile. She looks over to see the satisfied look on Melisandre’s face.

The handsome, young bard steps forward as Lord Royce return to his table. With a strum of his harp, he starts to sing of Florian and Jonquil. It turns her stomach to hear it. She once dreamed to have such beautiful songs of her favorites sung at her wedding, and here she is, her dream come true. She watches sadly, the story now one of grieving for her, of the loss of her younger self and of Sandor. Oh, how he would enjoy being called a fool knight ages from now in the song of the Red Queen and her Hound.

She feels the gentle tug of her little wolf pup pulling her out of her thoughts, he must be awake now. Having heard enough, she says, “Thank you,” to the singer as he finishes a verse, dismissing him. Then, she turns to Stannis to ask for leave, only to see Melisandre has moved to stand at his side and is bent to his ear, speaking to him. She sighs, she is queen, this is her wedding, she will do as she pleases, and rises.

Torches are being lit as the sun begins to fall further and the sky turns dark blue with the hint of stars. Tugging at her little wolf to follow, Sansa moves from the table to find her mother and her great-uncle standing a little way off, likely to avoid Melisandre’s ear, as if possible.

“I heard today from one of them Walder said that for whatever daughter he chose, he’d pay their weight in gold,” Ser Brynden is saying to her mother.

“Hmph,” her mother says in a disapproving tone.

“Who is this?” She says, coming upon them.

“Sansa,” her mother smiles in her well-meaning way.

“Our queen,” her great-uncle says to her, “The Red Queen, is that right?”

“If I hear that one more time,” Sansa says in a false threatening tone to jest.

“Going to have your wolf there take off a limb or two, aye? I’ll take my chances by the look of it. Grey Wind though…” Ser Brynden shakes his head with his eyebrows raised.

She smiles, enjoying his good humor and glad her new title hasn’t put distance between her and her family, or what’s left of it. “It’s a boy,” she tells them.

Her mother says, “It is the man who gave that pup your uncle was referring to. His son he spoke of is a Snow, Sansa.”

“Oh,” she says, taking note.

"Yes, the Freys say that is why they left early from Bitterbridge, to retrieve Lady Walda and bring her to King's Landing for her marriage to Lord Bolton." Her mother's disbelief is plain. 

Ser Brynden breathes in and out audibly, not commenting.

“Where is my uncle Edmure?” Sansa decides to ask.

“He seems to have taken a fancy to the wine and to a lady,” Ser Brynden says, looking over towards one of the tents set up in the gardens. Edmure’s leaned over with his hand on the back of the chair of a short, shapely woman with curling brown hair and a big smile. One would think it was her wedding day from the mirth in her eyes.

“Who is that?”

“Lord Royce’s daughter, Myranda. A widow,” her mother says without admiration.

“He seems happy,” Sansa says.

“By the looks of it,” Ser Brynden says, amused she can tell.

“He’d do better courting a woman from the Stormlands, even the Crownlands. There is already a Tully in the Eyrie. Ravella Swann I believe has a daughter. The Swanns are an old family, especially now that the Caron line has ended,” her mother suggests.

“Enjoy getting your brother to do that, especially after Robb would’ve had him marry a Frey,” Ser Brynden says. "Looked like she was the one courting at the start though," he laughs.

“What about Dorne?” Sansa says.

“Hmph,” her mother says, shaking her head. “And you’d never know if the son was a Tully or not unless it came out red-haired and blue-eyed, and even then.”

“Mother?” Sansa says, questioning her.

“An alliance with the Dornish will do little good in the Riverlands,” Ser Brynden says, “Perhaps for you if you want to unite the realm, Queen.” She didn’t even realize that was indeed her thought. Prince Oberyn’s words had troubled her, but she’s sure Melisandre will take him in hand.

“Your grace,” she hears the very woman’s voice now and turns to see her approaching. She holds out her hand to her, and Sansa places hers in it. Taking hold, Melisandre tells her, “It is time.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV: God's Eye Lake, Riverlands

Well, shit, Sandor thinks, as he puts back his whetstone, no need to sharpen Sansa’s sword, especially after just that little scrap they had. Nothing keeps an edge like Valyrian steel, they say, he’ll see. Sandor then sighs, looking around the camp, another night sitting around with these fuckers.

They’d run into a small band of his brother’s men, likely on their watch around God’s Eye from Harrenhal. He’d spurred Stranger on to reach them since they turned as soon as they saw the burning heart banner, clearly outnumbered. A strong thrust with Ice ate through the mail of one, and he downed another before looking up to see Rolland unhorsing one, vaulting down to grab him around the throat.

That’s the one they questioned, no need to even torture, the rat gave up all he knew with just the threat. Smaller force than he’d thought with his brother, evidently some brotherhood has been taking down their numbers here and there, and what with Vargo Hoat taking Harrenhal and Gregor having to take it back. Still, it’s not a castle to be breached easily.

He hears one of the talky ones, “Imagine we’re missing the royal wedding by now. Think they’ll have stripped our new queen on her way to Stannis’s bed?” Does this idiot even have a head to think with? Sandor wraps his hand around his hilt, clenching, he’ll rid him of it.

“Don’t be a fool, Darren,” Rolland says with a huff. “Just a waste to give her to Stannis. He doesn’t even look at her, just that Red Woman. I’d do more…”

“That’s bloody enough,” Sandor stands, pulling out his sword. “Want to try me on this? Another word about Sansa, and I’ll gut the next fucker. That's you, too." He directs at Rolland. 

Rolland scrunches his eyes up to look at him in the firelight as if an amusing play, but Sandor sees his hand on his sword at the ready. “Sansa, is it?” Gods be damned, Sandor thinks, and Davos, too, if he has to save this fool. “No offense, you are sworn to her. Be at ease, no swords barred between us."

Sandor levels Ice at him, and warns, "If I hear any shit about her, the man who said it'll be a head shorter." He turns, glaring at the group at this campfire before sheathing Ice.

 "Why are you here and not with her?"  Ser Rolland asks him.

"Not your concern," he says, retrieving his flagon. He sits down near to Rolland, turning up his flagon of wine, the sour red flowing down his gullet.

"Didn't you want to see her married? You are close, right?" He has a smirk as though he knows exactly why. 

"Someone told me to keep you alive, don't test me."

"Who?" Rolland looks at him pointed.

"Won't say," he answers, taking another swig to empty it. He feels the cloud coming over his mind, easing everything, and he breathes deep at the welcome haze. 

"Get more out of a rock," Rolland sniffs, grimacing at him. 

"Better than dying from a wrong word," he says. "Not going to do that yet." 

"Got an arrangement with the Stranger then?"

"Maybe it's with that fire god. Seeing he likes me," Sandor points to his face. 

"Pfft," Rolland responds, dismissive. "Fuck the Lord of Light." He throws a stick on the fire. 

"See why you're popular with the red bitch," Sandor says, pulling out another flagon. 

"And you are?" He says with a snort.

"She does seem to meddle in what I do." He takes another long gulp, remembering the fire from her fingertips as she took Sansa from him. 

After Rolland doesn't answer, just watching the flames, Sandor asks, "How do you plan on staying alive? Ever crossed swords with my brother? I imagine not seeing as you're here now."

Rolland shoots him a glare. "No, I have not. All men die, the Warrior will decide that day."

"Fuck the Warrior. Ten men couldn't take him down in full plate and a great sword. He's mine to kill, know that. Anyone who gets in the way is a dead man. If I die, he'll be tired enough to wear him out like a bear, still, men will die. If I do, bring my body back for my mistress."

"Aye," he answers, "Doubt any will challenge you on that. He's yours if you want him, though they'll call you kinslayer."

"Add it to the others. Honor is for dead men." Rolland purses his lips, not answering to that. "What'll you do, take us all right up to Harrenhal?"

Rolland looks at him annoyed. "We'll split forces tomorrow, some stopping any supplies from the south, and a larger force will head around the lake, take back Darry and the Crossroads Inn, cutting them off from the north and west."

"Hopefully, they'll be stupid enough, it'll draw 'em out."

"Aye," Rolland answers, “my thoughts, too.”

"Better if he knows I'm here, shield to the queen now, traitor to the Lannisters, his little brother." Sandor grits his teeth, drinking down more wine. Rolland nods, understanding. Gregor would be stupid enough to leave Harrenhal himself to hunt him down.

He gets up and staggers to his bedroll, finding it in the flicker of the firelight. He looks up at the stars spread out over the lake. Then he sees her eyes form in the darkness. Fuck, would all the wine in Dorne rid him of her? Maybe he should go there, dammit. He can’t trust it anymore. It makes him feel more, feel her skin, the smell of her, the silk of her hair, gods, her hair, before it goes all dark. Gods, why isn’t it black yet? His chest shakes, and he hates the wetness welling in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hopefully, he won’t remember this.

The next morning, he’s nudged awake, the fucker nearly catching a dagger to his blasted foot. In a fog, he crams his stuff together and heaves up onto Stranger. He heads out with the force going north around the west side of the lake.

The sun is high in the sky when they chance upon a lone fighter on horseback. The fuck, Sandor thinks as they near “her” by the looks of it. Rolland pulls ahead, hesitating to address her, "Your business?" he settles on.

Her arm is messed up, he notices her favoring it. "Who would like to know, ser?" She responds.

"I am Ser Rolland, and we bear the King's banner." He sees her mouth turn in disgust at mention of the King. She should get better at hiding that. Rolland's horse shifts in place as he stares hard at her. "I know who you are," he says. "You're Lady Stark's sworn shield, meant to have Jaime Lannister. Why don't you?" Davos must've told him about her, sure as hells surprises him and the wench by the look on her face. He must be right. Well, how many lady knights can there be wandering around the Riverlands? A lady knight toting around the Kingslayer, no wonder she lost him, he snorts, catching some looks.

“Yes, I am Lady Brienne of Tarth.” She sits tall on her horse. Catelyn Stark’s sworn shield. Ser Wendel would die of jealousy, remembering the portly knight that followed her about. He doesn’t remember her at Winterfell though, would’ve stuck out. No, Catelyn must’ve acquired her during the wars – much like her daughter, collecting swords. Hopefully, there’s not as much between the lady knight and her lady as Sansa and he, he smirks to himself. Gods, the urge of wanting her breast in his hand hits him at the most inopportune times.

Stranger whinnies, turning his head to his side, like he’s looking at him. Aye, boy, another long day for me. He’s not sure if it’s worse when he would see her or now when he can’t. Now he’s desperate for even a glimpse of her, if he’s honest with himself. He pushes away the look of her deep, blue eyes that come to him, not now.

“Sandor, Sandor Clegane.” He’s pulled out of his thoughts to Rolland urging him over. He nudges Stranger over to him and the lady. Women should just not be that tall, she’s nearly as big as him, hells. “Watch over Lady Brienne, will you?” Rolland asks, but it is not a question. “Considering you are both Stark sworn shields you should get along.” The smug grin on Rolland’s face makes him want to bust that lip of his and crack a few teeth.

He shifts his glare to look at Brienne who is appraising him with shock and disgust. “How are you Lady Catelyn’s sworn shield as well?”

“Not Cat, Sansa,” he says, giving her a nice, friendly smile just to make her repulsed more. As though she’s a pretty picture.

“I still don’t understand. You are the Lannister Hound,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Not any more. New mistress.” He says, but the wench doesn’t change, still regarding him distrustful and confused. Like he’s going to tell her that fucking story. The red witch got the most out of them about it, and hopefully, that’s how it stays.

“Why are you not in King’s Landing then?”

He sighs, getting tired of the question. “She’s queen now, safe enough. Gave me leave to kill my brother.”

“Queen?” Brienne knits her brow looking at him again.

“Out in the Riverlands you didn’t hear she’s wed Stannis,” he tells her, wanting to jab her, but somehow saying it himself leaves ashes in his mouth. Wedded and bedded. Fuck, he feels around to flap open his saddlebag for a flagon of wine. Need to start early today. Maybe he should die. He can’t do this the rest of his sorry life.

“No, I did not. King Robb and Lady Catelyn have returned to the North?”

“How lost were you? Robb’s dead. Cat’s in the capitol last I saw her.”

Brienne nods, solemn

“Where were you headed if you weren’t headed North? Wouldn’t think you’d chance Harrenhal.”

She sighs, looking to him, “As I told Ser Rolland, we were waylaid by the Mountain’s men when I was escorting Arya and Jaime to Riverrun with the Brotherhood. Jaime took Arya and headed south, but he has since joined with a group of Lannister men and taken this course to…”

“To Harrenhal,” he finishes for her, his mouth clenching. Not fucking Jaime Lannister and his brother. “He can’t reach Harrenhal.”

“That is what Ser Rolland said. I pointed him to the path they’ve taken.”

He nods, annoyance turning to anger in his system. “What the fuck’s the Brotherhood?” he asks.

“No need to be ugly,” she spits back at him. “Brotherhood without Banners. Not many surviving members.” She looks about to say something but chooses not to. Fine by him.

“Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa, I trust are well?” She asks.

“Aye,” he says, gritting it out in annoyance. “Let’s pick up the pace,” he says to her, pressing Stranger ahead to the front of the party. By the looks of Brienne, he’ll soon see Jaime Lannister covered in shit, too.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos POV: Small Council

“In consideration of the seat of the Westerlands,” Stannis starts the Small Council meeting. “a marriage between the North and the Riverlands was agreed to, and seeing as this marriage has taken place, I name Roose Bolton Warden of the West.” Davos starts at that, not aware this decision was made. He knew Bolton’s recent marriage under the Lord of Light would curry the right favor, just not so soon and not so high.

“Thank you, your grace. You do me and my house great honor,” Bolton says.

“The houses of Dorne were not considered for this position?” Oberyn butts in.

“Dorne did not ally with us against the Tyrell and Lannister force. This was an agreement for the alliance with Lord Stark.” Stannis points out, his tone impatient. Oberyn appears annoyed.

Brynden is absorbing this news before saying, “Is this not in haste, your grace? Bolton’s firstborn is but a bastard, and the Freys are under suspicion of murdering Lord Stark and his wife. ”

Davos speaks, “I second Ser Brynden’s statements, your grace. Though I believe Lord Bolton a capable man, is not more consideration needed?” He’s disappointed to see Stannis glance towards the Red Woman.

She smiles, her charming tone belying her intent to undercut their argument. “More consideration, Ser Davos? One man saw another take down his lord in the heat of battle, thinking he saw a tower on a surcoat when it could be any number of houses of the Reach. Little evidence has been brought to little to identify these individuals, and in haste, a plot by an entire house has been suggested. There are greater matters to be considered in the Small Council. Casterly Rock is facing a heightened threat from the disbanded Lannister soldiers, and the Reach must be secured. Is it not time to put these rumors to rest?”

“Rumors? I saw Robb Stark’s queen laid out, a stab wound to her belly. Someone intended to end his line. Could this not be a threat to the queen?” Davos argues.

He can see his point give her pause, not having considered the queen in this scheme of hers, and his grace turns rigid with purpose.

Stannis says, “Melisandre, Ser Davos, take a special interest in gleaning any information as to who these individuals could be and what connections there could be. I stand by my decision, as Lady Walda, I’m sure, is innocent in these affairs. The West must be secured, and I trust you will do so, Lord Bolton,” Stannis cast an intent look at the man.

Bolton does not pale though. “I will send word to my son to lead my forces to the Westerlands. We will crush what remains of Tywin’s forces.”

“Understand legitimization of your bastard will not be considered at this time,” Stannis clarifies, his gaze still intent on the man. He can see Bolton is not pleased, but he has enough to be pleased with as it is. “Who is guarding my wife? Not still that Clegane? Oh, he is in the Riverlands to become a kinslayer, any news there?” Stannis says with distaste.

“No news from Ser Rolland. Melisandre would know about the queen.” Davos answers.

Melisandre says her part,“Ser Brus and Ser Corliss are her guards, trusted men I chose for her.” And followers of the Lord of Light. Davos adds to himself. Ser Corliss was even turned in the Blackwater. He’d noticed they were starting to die, and many fell at the Reach in their zeal to attack.

“Good, Melisandre,” Stannis nods to her. It chills him to know even Melisandre has chosen Sansa's guard.

“How is a Clegane trusted to kill another Clegane? Are you mad?” Oberyn says in the pause.

“I have seen the Mountain’s death in my fires by his brother’s hand,” Melisandre looks to him with certainty.

“In my visions, it is by my hand, my lady. The Mountain should meet Martell justice for what he did to my sister, Elia. If you wish for Dorne to truly recognize you as king, you must allow us this."

“We can send word to capture the Mountain, your grace,” Davos suggests. “Though understand, Prince Oberyn, this mission is to retake Harrenhal, the last hold of the Lannisters, not merely execute the Mountain.”

“Which is why he should be sent to Dorne,” Oberyn points out.

“Send the Mountain to Dorne, you wish to lose him?” Brynden says with a laugh. “Kill the bastard, whoever does it, but kill him all the same as soon as can be done.”

“It is not your sister who was raped and murdered by the Mountain. Her children slain,” Oberyn says with venom.

“He only raped and pillaged my homeland,” Brynden says, an equal glare in return.

“He will die,” Melisandre says with gravity. “Would his head suit to decorate your walls, prince?”

“If that is the best the King can do.” Oberyn answers with sarcasm. 

“It is settled,” Stannis says, clearly annoyed. His grace is about to get up when guards arrive, escorting a young man. Unease creeps through Davos at what this bodes, especially when he takes in the blue eyes and black hair of the lad.

“What is this?” Stannis says, terse.

“Lady Melisandre said to bring the boy straightway to her when we arrived.” Melisandre goes over and whispers to the king, and his unease only mounts.

“Small Council, you are dismissed,” Stannis says, commanding. Davos stands but remains as the others leave with puzzled faces.

“Your name, boy?” Stannis asks.

“Gendry, yer grace.” He says, looking around the room.

“You are my brother’s bastard, are you?” Stannis asks.

“They say that,” he says, sheepish.

“He has king’s blood, your grace. We have need of him. Come to my chambers at dusk, and you will see the power of it,” she says, leaving with a frightening smile on her face as she sweeps out of the room, the guard and the lad following.

“What does she mean to do the lad, your grace?” He asks of Stannis.

Stannis looks to him, the way he knows to tread carefully. “Let us go over what regions need to be secured, Ser Davos. It is good you have secured the royal fleet.”

He knew Stannis did not want him to, but dusk arrived, and he followed after him to the Red Woman’s chamber, lit by fires.

Entering, Melisandre eyes him, her lip curling up at the corner, not to be unsettled he came. The boy is stripped on a table, unconscious, and he moves to grab something to cover him with. “What have you done to him? The lad is innocent.”

“Innocent, yes, and with his king’s blood, his fire will wake dragons.” She looks to Stannis now as though she has presented the perfect gift. The king looks unsettled, glancing toward the boy.

“You don’t mean to burn him?” Davos says, outraged.

“Ser Davos,” she says with a smile. “You may leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Stannis,” he addresses the king who holds a hand up to him. He stays silent then, watching as Melisandre produces a tray with black, glistening lumps. Leeches.

“King's blood," she points out. "Three names in the fire, and your enemies will die,” she says to Stannis.

Stannis’s frowning expression doesn’t change as he picks up one of the leeches, drawing it over the fire. He glances to Melisandre, who nods. “Jaime Lannister,” he says. Then he grabs the next leech, “Balon Greyjoy.” Grabbing the next one, he holds it over the fire like the others, saying, “Daenerys Targaryen.” He lets go the leech, and as it touches the flames, Davos watches the fire go out.

He looks to Melisandre, whose lips are pursed, watching the fireless basin. Stannis’s face is disturbed as he asks her, “What is the meaning of this?”

“The Lord of Light may have some purpose for her, your grace,” she says, but he can see how unnerved she is. She knows what this means, but she won’t say it. The Targaryen girl, her life will not end, and that he understands, and for her, he will watch.

He looks over to Gendry, watching this ritual with wide eyes, awake and scared. Melisandre says, “He should be kept in the dungeon, your grace, and kept guarded.” Davos thinks, she kept him away before while she burned the Lannister Court, but by the old gods and the new, she will not burn this boy.

Once night has fallen, Davos goes to Ser Andrew Estermont, “Ser Andrew, get together your most trusted men. I have something you must do. The Red Woman intends to burn a young lad, a bastard of Robert’s. We must not allow her this, she thinks it will wake dragons.” He says, making his disbelief clear.

“What? We would have to take him far out of her reach. You would have to leave, ser.”

“I cannot,” Ser Davos tells him. “I keep apprised of the ships, there’s one leaving with the morning tide to Lys. It is far enough.”

Ser Andrew looks wary, “Many of the king’s men went to retake Harrenhal. With this, a number will have to leave with me or be burned traitors.”

“Aye,” he nods to him. “Meet me at the hour of the wolf at east stair with three of your most trusted men.” With that, he leaves Ser Andrew to make sure all else is ready.

It is not long until he’s there, waiting on the east stair. Ser Andrew arrives, and they head into the bowels of the dungeons, torch in hand. He frowns to see two guards, swords drawn and burning, awaiting them.

“She said you might come, Ser Davos.”

“I’m not alone,” he says, pulling out his sword. He’s not much of a fighter, but a young man’s life is at stake.

With only the glow from the fire, Ser Andrew takes the lead, meeting one of the flaming swords with his own steel, the clash echoing. He’s behind him to meet the other. A quick turn of his opponent’s sword though and he’s gashed at his shoulder and falling. He’s lucky he has on his leathers and it doesn’t catch flame, too.

Hearing the clash of steel overhead, only a minute passes until it is only the panting breaths of the men heard in the dark. “Ser Davos,” he hears Ser Andrew, feeling the torchlight on him. He reaches a hand up to get pulled back up.

“Found the key,” another man says.

“Good, get it open,” Ser Andrew says.

The shrill sound of the iron door opening is heard next, and the firelight shows a wide-eyed Gendry at the entance.

“This is Ser Andrew Estermont, Gendry. He’s here to take you to Essos. You won’t be burned, boy.”

Gendry is speechless, but they hurry him out. They stick to the darkness once out of the dungeons, keeping a steady walk to not attract suspicion. He had made sure king’s men were on guard so as not to question him as they left. Not many knew about the lad.

At the gate, he places a heavy bag of gold in Ser Andrew’s hands. He tells him, “I don’t know when it will be safe to return.” Ser Andrew nods and takes Gendry from there. He walks back to the Tower of Hand, his fate uncertain now but his heart lighter.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn POV: Plot, plot, and more plot

“He has not visited you again, not even once?” Catelyn asks her daughter about Stannis. For a man who intends on heirs, he is not terribly keen on it.

“No, mother. I would rather not discuss it,” Sansa tells her.

“Well, I am going with you this time to see that Red Woman.”

“Melisandre, mother.” Sansa gives her that look, that she knows how to play this game better than her. Then, Sansa's looking down to pet the growing wolf pup across her lap. Bolton’s gift, Cat frowns.

“Do not be so familiar with her. Are you well? You look well.”

“I am fine, mother. You have not written to Littlefinger, have you?”

“Daughter, do not worry yourself.” Sansa tightens her lip for but a moment – Sansa believes she will. But how else is she supposed to provide any proof over this matter if she does not follow leads? “Brynden told me Ser Davos and Melisandre,” she inflects the name, “both have been charged with tracking down those responsible.”

“Why would Stannis do that?” Her daughter wonders aloud.

“For your safety, Sansa,” she says, “This plot by the Freys could include hurting you. I will not let that happen.” Sansa looks down for a moment, sighing, her unhappiness at her situation plain. She’s relieved her daughter does not completely don a mask for her. “Perhaps now that they are married into the great house Bolton,” she says with sarcasm, “they will rest.”

“Could we send out a request for information, with a price?” Sansa suggests.

“And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is now a witness,” she says, doubtful.

“Real proof necessary,” her daughter says, unperturbed. “Who could preside over this inquiry?”

“I could have Ser Wendel do so. He was there and would be able to discern honest replies.”

“Good, I will have letters written and sent to every house in the Riverlands and the North in case someone from the host saw something.” Good to see her daughter thus, pursuing a purpose to her role.

“Let me change,” she says, moving the yawning pup over to stand. She watches her daughter’s hand go up to find the ruby around her neck. Cat knows she wears it always now. The few times she’s seen her without it, Sansa looks so tired, so sad, she wonders if that’s when she’s truly seeing her daughter.

She goes behind the screen with her handmaidens, emerging in her deep blue dress and her skin nearly glowing. She is a breathtaking queen, Cat must admit. She walks behind her as they head to see the Red Woman. She’d told Sansa, she should be receiving her, not having to go to visit her, but Sansa had waved it off, that Melisandre could need one of her potions or something at hand.

She notices as they walk through the keep, how now that peace has settled more and more noblemen and women have arrived to try their place in the new Court. She would be far away from this place if she could. You risk fire stepping foot in here.

“Sansa,” Melisandre says her daughter’s name in that familiar, cloying way that sets her nerves on end. “Catelyn,” she says next, and that’s almost worse.

“Should there not be a tourney to celebrate the King’s victory?” Sansa suggests casually as they take their seat. Melisandre pouring tea, and Sansa adding her honey. She won’t touch it.

“I’m afraid it would not be fair to all the knights in the regions securing the new reign, your sworn shield included,” Melisandre answers with a smile.

“Yes,” Sansa nods, not skipping a beat, “Is there any word from Ser Rolland?”

“Not yet. They are not in a position likely to send ravens. I do not know his strategy or when they will be able.”

“I heard you may be looking into the matter of my brother and goodsister’s death as well as her hand maiden. I intend to also involve myself in this matter,” Sansa says.

“Oh, is that so?” Melisandre cuts a look to Cat. “I don’t know if I will succeed where others have not, but I will see what I can do.” So humble, Cat thinks with a huff. “My queen,” Melisandre starts, and here comes the request, thinks Cat, “I would like to examine you, if I may.”

Her daughter hesitates, not expecting this evidently. “Of course,” she answers.

“I know it has only been a fortnight, but I want to see. Please Catelyn, if you would allow Sansa to lie down.” Cat moves allow her to do so.

Then, Melisandre is there by Sansa, placing her hands over her stomach. She takes several moments before saying, “It is as I thought, twins.”

“Twins? I’m with child?” Sansa reacts.

“Yes, you are, my queen,” Melisandre says with a smile as Sansa rises, and Melisandre lowers to her place beside her.

“Are you sure?” Sansa asks.

“Yes,” she smiles. “Stannis will be pleased.”

She sees her daughter’s face fall at the word Stannis, and her heart aches for her. Cat’s eyes narrow as she considers then, the Red Woman, she knew Sansa would conceive that night, that is why Stannis hasn’t touched her since. He doesn’t intend to either. A man must touch some woman though, and this unsettles her further as she looks at Melisandre, her hand soft on her daughter’s arm as Sansa comes to terms with her new truth.

“Children are always a gift,” Cat says, her daughter turning to look at her. She smiles to her sadly. She knows Sansa will love her children, no matter the father for they will be hers, flesh of her flesh, born out of her own womb. She may not know it now, but it is how it will be. She will see that these grandchildren are born to her, if she must sleep with a dagger in her own daughter’s room. Little need as Melisandre has orchestrated all this for heirs to her king. She must not be able to procure those herself. Cat sighs, pray they are boys for Sansa’s sake. Twins though, it will be a hard birth, she worries.

“Yes, mother,” Sansa says, “And now, I will retire for the day.” She smiles to both of them and rises. At least she’s starting to act more the queen, Cat notes.

Leaving her daughter in her chambers, Cat looks to Ser Wendel, and he nods back. They head to the stables then, where Wendel retrieves her ready horse. Though Sansa was suspicious she would contact Petyr, she likely doesn’t anticipate her meeting him today.

Cat mounts her palfrey, Wendel does the same, and they head out of the Red Keep. Down in the city, they pass through Flea Bottom on their way out the Lion Gate and take the Rosby Road. At a good clip, they make their way to the Old Stone Bridge Inn halfway to Duskendale. He’d told her to ask for the south room, so they do and follow the innkeep up. She was confused to see Petyr not in the room when they enter. She huffs, doffing her cloak and taking a place at the small table.

A knock on the door is heard thereafter, and Wendel opens to reveal two men-at-arms bearing falcon crests and Petyr. He enters, gesturing to his men to keep the door. “Cat,” he says with a smile, coming towards her as if to embrace.

She holds a cold hand up to him, saying, “I am here for what you know about my son’s death.”

“Don’t you want to hear of your sister and nephew? Oh, how he grows with every day.”

“Is he still suckling?” She asks, half-serious.

Petyr only laughs, taking the seat across from her. “How is your daughter, Sansa? Is she well? Such a beauty.”

“You lied to me. You said Arya was still at the keep. Now she is lost to us.”

“Cat,” he says, shrugging off her accusation. “These things must not stay between us.” He reaches across the table, and she pulls back aghast.

“Don’t make me pull a dagger on you again.”

“Do you think you are safe in King’s Landing?” He says, his eyes gleaming with cunning as his anger is piqued. “Do you know the Red Woman? Fire is mercy to her. You may know Cersei and Joffrey were burned, but also her younger son, little Tommen was also tied to a stake and set aflame. Be careful who you make an enemy.”

“And are you a friend? Stannis wants you dead Sansa says.” This apparently gives him pause as he frowns and runs a finger over his mustache. “You think you are safe in the Eyrie with my sister?”

“Is there a safer place in Westeros than the Eyrie?”

“Along as you steer clear of the moon door,” she says, light-heartedly.

“Yes,” he says, smirking at her.

“My sister is changed though. She is not well.” She looks to him, and his gaze back is intent. He will not say, but he knows.

“Your daughter will be safe as queen, but you, Cat, I worry for you in King’s Landing. I could make it easy for us, Braavos, Lys, Qarth even. There is a chance for us.”

“Do not talk nonsense,” she says and looks away. “I will not leave my daughter. Not to that sorceress while I still draw breath. I’ve lost enough.” She turns back to him with a hard stare, “Tell me what it is you know and what do you want for it.”

“Nothing from you, Cat. Never. We are old friends.” He smiles to her. “From what I understand, it was Edwyn and Aenys Frey who are behind it. I cannot place them, but I have a witness who overheard Hosteen Frey boast while at the Twins that he killed your son.” She gasps, but if she had to pick a Frey she suspected, he would be one of them. “He could not be the one who planned it though. It had to have come from Edwyn. I believe they were in league with Rhaegar and Symond Frey.”

“What of Roose Bolton?” Cat asks.

“I have nothing to tie him, but his marriage to one of the Waldas is conspicuous. You know Walder, every alliance he tries to marry someone off. Of course, Bolton got a pretty penny for her.”

“I have a bad feeling about that man. He’s risen too high. Small Council, Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. Hmph.” She says, indignant. “Never trusted him.” Petyr smiles at her thinking in a way that unnerves her. He’s always a step ahead. “I need clear ties, something I can show to the King.”

“That is all I have,” Petyr says with a tilt of his head, just looking at her.

“You didn’t tell me much I didn’t already conclude. It must have been Edwyn. Aenys, I could see that. Hosteen, of course.”

“Careful working through Edmure on this,” he says, knowing where her mind is turning. “Speaking of which, Lysa has been asked to seek a betrothal between him and Lady Myranda Royce.”

“Oh, has she?” Cat says, not surprised.

Petyr smiles, “He could do worse.”

“A better alliance would be smarter. Trying times lay ahead.”

“You already have the best alliance. Your daughter, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” He smiles to her.

She purses her lips, not wanting to give anything away.

“Well, I hope she is happy. She deserves it after Joffrey,” he says.

“Could you not have done more for her?”

“Cat,” he says, “you knew what the Lannisters were capable of. Without the Red Woman, it’s likely Stannis wouldn’t have had a chance, let alone Robb. Remember that.” He stands then, bowing to her before he leaves.

Cat takes a deep breath, looking to Wendel. “Do you remember Hosteen? Square of face, a brawny man. Much the warrior.”

“Sounds right,” he nods to her. “I was in shock but I remember a barrel of a man and the two towers.”

“Yes, well, let us return.”

They barely beat back dusk and ride through the city in the rose-colored light as they return to the keep. She goes to her chambers, tired from what the day has brought, her daughter with child, twins even, she smiles, and they are closer in identifying which Freys are responsible. Wendel opens her door, and she’s surprised to see her uncle there, waiting.

He holds his hand up to his lips to indicate quiet, so she nods to him, taking her place opposite him.

“What is it, Brynden? Have you heard Sansa is with child?” Cat asks softly.

His eyes widen, and he whispers, “No, that is not the news of the Court.” Good, it is best to wait to see if she will carry the babes for another moon’s turn or more.

“Twins.”

He smiles at that, “Good.” Then he grows more serious and starts quieter, “Ser Davos was arrested today.” Cat can’t help but gasp. “That Red Woman walked into the Court with a party of guards at her back carrying two bodies and ripped Davos’s sleeve in front of the king, proclaiming him traitor to the crown for smuggling out some bastard of Robert’s.” Cat’s hands are clenched in stress as she looks down, absorbing it all. “He’s in the dungeon’s now. Stannis called her acting Hand.”

“Melisandre acting Hand. What is she Septon, Maester, and Hand?”

“Shh,” Brynden says. “Add queen to that?” He smirks, but there’s no joy in it. No joy at all.

She looks to Brynden’s eyes now and sees her fears reflected there. Ser Davos was their ally, one of the holdouts from converting to her red god. Even her daughter has been pressured to so much.

“I’ll write to Edmure to send ten of his best guard, not too many to be suspicious. Have Sansa dismiss her guards in favor of rivermen or have her send for northmen. Watch what you say, Cat, I know your temper.” She nods to him, it will do for now. "I will see what king's men are left to rally."

“I must tell you where I’ve been.” She shifts to say it right in his ear, “I’ve met with Petyr.” She proceeds to tell him of their Frey suspicions.

“It’s too tense to act now without definitive proof. The King is concerned for Sansa’s safety, and if we have any link in that regard, we can go to them, but their concern is not for what is past.”

“The past affects the present,” Cat says, her lips tight as she sits straight in her chair, looking at her uncle.

“I will leave you then,” he says, getting up. He leaves for the night, and she stays there, sitting, her mind busy as the candles burn down to nubs.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV

Arya knows they are close, another day and they'll reach Harrenhal before the sun falls. She'd nearly escaped a few times, but the Kingslayer is set on using her and ever watchful. He doesn't know what awaits him really. Lying on a makeshift bedroll, she looks up at the full moon, sky clear this night and full of stars. She connects the shining dots in her restlessness, hoping she'll be able to get a knife and cut the rope, getting away before anyone can reach her. She can't go to Harrenhal. She cannot.

Arya's about to move when she hears the wolf howl. Taking it as a sign, she stealthily crawls, slipping the boot knife out from one of the companions and starts on the rope. 

"Not again," Jaime says, pulling taut on the rope, but he's frozen by the sound of a growl behind her. She breathes fast, scared, but the beast comes to her side rising as high as a pony to block the moonlight. What the...? Her mind is in shock. Then she realizes it could be her direwolf, and she cries out, "Nymeria." 

The wolf stays trained on Jaime Lannister, teeth bared, so Arya says in her own snarl, "Let go of the rope, Kingslayer." The other men are getting up now at the commotion, grabbing their swords.

Lannister pulls the rope tighter, but Nymeria advances. Arya takes advantage of his twitch of fear to yank the rope from him, but another man comes to her other side, taking hold of her. That is when Nymeria attacks, going for the man's throat. Arya doesn't flinch at the vicious sound of her tearing it out. One of them takes the moment to slash her wolf with his sword though, andat the contact, Nymeria yelps, springing out of the way, staying between her and the Lannister men. 

She's frozen, watching them advance. She doesn't want Nymeria to get hurt, so she turns and runs back the way they came, south along the lake. She worries for Nymeria as she hears her attack and one of them cry out. At least they don't sleep in their plate armor, she thinks happily as she reaches the lake and turns down. 

It feels like she's running forever until she stumbles and doesn't recover, hitting the ground hard. She feels the trickle of blood and grit in her palms from stopping herself. Her hands go to her knees, feeling more torn skin, blood running. Shit. She gets up though and feels her ankle twisted. Fuck. She limps further until the pain is too much, and she finds a tree to sit against. It takes awhile for her breathing to normalize as she looks up at the moon, trying not to think of what she will do. Nymeria will come for her. 

She must doze off when she wakes to something cold and wet against her. She wakes, shivering, to find Nymeria nudging her with her nose. Thank the gods. She moves to wrap her arms around her neck, but Nymeria pulls back before. Is she leaving? But then, Nymeria sits and lies down next to her. Cold to the bone, Arya moves next to her, relieved Nymeria doesn't pull away now. The feel of her coarse fur is like a second skin, and she's soon sleeping in near comfort, more comfort to know Harrenhal will not hold her again.

 

"You there," she wakes up, startled. Nymeria gone, her eyes stretch wider and wider as she takes in the host of mounted and armored men. Her first instinct to bolt kicks in, and she makes it several yards before a hand is grabbing and pulling her up, up onto a horse. 

She's doing whatever she can to fumble his grasp, when she hears, "Stay still, little wolf." 

She looks up to see who it could be to see the marred face she knows well, burned into her mind, a name on her list. "If my direwolf were here, I'd have her rip your throat out, Hound.

His rough, mocking laugh only baits her anger, making her try to strike out at him.

She sees anger set in his jaw as he grabs her arm in a bruising grip. "No direwolf here, girl, imagining things?" He says snide.

"How else do you think I got away from the Kingslayer?" She says, too quick.

He looks at her a moment before kicking his horse back. "It's the queen's sister, Arya Stark." She's surprised to hear him say that. Queen? Sansa? That would make her... Oh, gods, Stannis. 

"She can't be married to Stannis!" She says, her disbelief clear. If possible, his face tenses further into a hard line.

She looks around to see better the large party and spots Brienne's face among them.

"You're sure?" A man in mail asks the Hound. He must be the knight leading them. 

"Aye, know it's her,” he says, then nudging her to ask, “When did you see Jaime Lannister last?”

Arya sees all the eyes trained on her, she gulps before saying, “Who’s asking?” Several laughs are heard, even the Hound snorts at her.

“Ser Rolland Storm, Lady Arya. I command King Stannis’s force here in the Riverlands.”

“Why are you here?”

“There’s a Lannister force still at Harrenhal. We mean to retake it,” he says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Why is the Hound not dead?” She asks next, and more laughter is heard, especially as Clegane holds her out as if to drop her from his horse before pulling her back in.

“Your sister, the queen, is why,” the Hound says, loud and dismissive, and she is speechless, not able to understand how that could possibly be a reason.

“Jaime Lannister, girl?” Ser Rolland asks of her, his patience wearing thin by the dangerous glint in his eye.

“Last night, I escaped and came back south. They’re a day to Harrenhal, not far,” she answers.

“How many are with him?”

“About five Lannister men, though fewer now. My direwolf killed one last night at least. There may well be no Jaime Lannister.”

“Your direwolf?” He says, cracking a smile. He clearly doesn’t believe her.

“My direwolf, Nymeria, I sent her away while we were going south down the Kingsroad. She survived but wouldn’t have if Cersei Lannister had her way. She came to my rescue.” She tries to explain, but no one is listening to her as Ser Rolland has turned and starts calling out names to ride ahead.

“Hound, you think you can keep hold of that one while we get the Kingslayer?” Ser Rolland says.

“I’m not going anywhere with the Hound,” she yells out, trying again to get away.

He seizes her hard, saying, “May need some rope. You sure you can handle the Kingslayer?”

“He’ll be outnumbered at least,” Ser Rolland answers with a grin.

Brienne rides up to them, “Please place Lady Arya in my care.”

“You know her?” The Hound asks Arya.

“We’ve met,” Arya says. “She was taking the Kingslayer back to Riverrun when the brotherhood caught them. Then we all headed to Riverrun, but…” She doesn’t finish.

“They know about the kidnapping during the fight with the Mountain’s men,” Brienne tells her.

“You trust she is your mother’s sworn shield?” Rolland asks.

“No, I don’t,” she says. Both men look to each other uncertain. “Trust her more than the Hound though.” She says, hoping to at least get out of the Hound’s reach.

“Fine, stay with Brienne, we’ll get you back to your mother and sister,” Rolland says, leaving to trail after the other men tracking the Kingslayer. What about Robb? Her question must show on her face because she sees Brienne frown.

It’s the Hound though that speaks as he’s handing her over to Brienne. “Robb died at Bitterbridge.”

“Don’t talk to me!” She yells out. Anger only a quick cover for the loss hitting her. Not Robb, too. She was going to ask Brienne about the brotherhood after Jaime took her, but she can’t take anything else right now. She stays silent, not answering Brienne at all, as they follow at a slower pace.

The monotony of the ride isn't soothing. She remains stoic, despite the tearing thoughts inside. Robb dead, her brother, Rickon and Bran. She only has Jon at the Wall now. Sansa is the queen by a different king. None of it makes sense. What will her mother think of her and how could she go to King’s Landing? Almost as bad as Harrenhal.

Near to dusk the other party returns in high spirits, a captured Kingslayer in tow, and they make camp for the night.

“Arya,” Brienne calls to her as she wanders off aimlessly away from camp.

“I’ll be right, there,” she says, but the woman follows her anyways.

“I know this has been a difficult day, but Ser Rolland will want to discuss plans that involve you.”

“Fine,” she says, turning to follow after her.

They find Ser Rolland where they are getting Jaime Lannister bound for the night.

“He escaped the Starks multiple times, be careful,” Brienne points out to the them, but she can see they're dismissive of her input.

“Ser Rolland, I ask that I be allowed to escort Lady Arya back to King’s Landing.”

“We cannot send you in command of returning her. No one can vouch for you as Lady Stark’s shield.”

“She is sworn to Lady Catelyn,” the Lannister speaks up. Everyone looks surprised to him. “She was to take me to King’s Landing in exchange for…” Someone kicks him to shut up. Arya notes Brienne’s face is displeased to see him treated thus.

“Even if this is true,” Rolland says, “we will have two others from our host to escort the queen’s sister.” Not the Hound, not the Hound, she prays. Still, small guard for a lady, Arya thinks, but they’ll need every man they have to take back Harrenhal. Should be peaceful for those riding with the king’s soldiers from here to King’s Landing.

The next day, she has her own pony, and they head south. The two guard ride ahead, her and Brienne behind, following the road along the lake back to the Kingsroad.

“Brienne, at the fight, did anyone else survive?” Arya asks her.

“Between Beric and I, we were able to push them back to retreat. Thoros and the archer had fallen and several others. I would’ve gone right after you if I hadn’t near passed out from losing blood from the gash in my arm. I went back with them to their hideout, not blindfolded. The healer woman got me fixed up. Beric had lain down, thought to sleep though many questioned he could. He couldn’t be woken. After that and the business with the soldiers, I was on my way to find you and Ser Jaime. There is no brotherhood anymore, Arya.”

“But, but, Gendry. What happened to Gendry?”

“Was he the boy you were with there? Dark hair, strong lad?”

“Yes, yes?” she pushes for information.

“Oh, um,” Brienne looks at her unsure, thinking before telling her, “A group of burning heart soldiers arrived at the hideout. I don’t know how they knew of it, but they demanded the boy I believe we speak of. They said they were taking him to the king.”

Arya feels a sick uneasiness well inside of her. Now she has to go to King’s Landing. Will he be dead before she can even get there? A new purpose forms as their destination lay ahead. She only wishes Nymeria was still by her side.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre POV

“You must not show mercy, my king,” Melisandre tells Stannis. “You do not know the depths of what he has taken.”

“He was not even a man. Burn that boy because he was Robert’s? Davos did what I should’ve done. My daughter is in grief, won’t eat they say.” Sitting in his solar, Stannis is holding his forehead in one hand, negativity steaming off him. She comes over towards him, bending to get him to look her in the eye. “He is my Hand, Mel.”

“Stannis, you are more than a king. You are the prince who is promised. The Lord of Light has chosen you. A great war is coming, and we need you. I need you or all hope is lost. This was a true betrayal.”

“If I’m all of this, then why won’t you?” He says, sounding defeated.

“Tonight, my king,” she smiles. She knows the rumors still cling, always will, but at least with a beautiful bride and two beautiful children soon those rumors will be harmless. “You do not find your new bride suitable?”

He frowns, giving her a look, “She is fine. Cold, so cold to the touch. I have no want for her. She will bear me sons though you say.”

“Yes, sons, I have seen it in the flames. You must know she will be the sacrifice for their birth.”

“No more queens.” He tells her, his hand finding her hip. “Only you.” He holds her there, looking into her eyes, stronger now. “Tonight,” he tells her and rises. She follows him then to the Throne Room with the kingsguard.

Stannis takes the Iron Throne in front of those gathered, speaking, “I hereby summon Ser Davos Seaworth.” Already brought forth from the black cells, he is brought before Stannis and kneels down before him.

“Have you any evidence against the claim you orchestrated the escape of Gendry Waters from the Red Keep? Killing two men in the process.” Stannis asks him. His face is strong and hard, but she can hear his grief even if it would not be evident to anyone. For Davos to disrupt her in this was folly on his part and something she could never forgive, Stannis’s Hand or not.

“I do not dispute the claim. I only have one request if I may of your grace,” Davos says, pricking her ears.

“I will allow it,” Stannis says. He’s having a hard time looking at the man.

“I request that I may choose my manner of death, your grace,” he says. A low murmur runs through the hall. So everyone thought she would have him set to flame, even Ser Davos himself, and they expect her to somehow circumvent this.

“You may,” Stannis says, looking over to her with heavy eyes.

“I always thought I would die at sea, your grace, my lungs full of water.” Drowning? Melisandre marks the odd choice. If he intends to somehow avoid his sentence, the man underestimates her. She will choose the men on his last voyage.

“So be it,” Stannis declares.

After proceedings at Court, including appearance of the newly appointed Grand Maester, Maester Aeron, she attends the Small Council with Stannis.

She notices Oberyn’s attendance has proven less and less, this day being another of his absence. At least Sansa has been able to secure Dorne’s affections. The region contributes little as it is and carries no real threat to the crown.

“Maester Aeron,” she allows a smile, “so glad you could join us. You are from the Westerlands, yes?”

“That is where I came from before the Citadel, my lady,” he answers diplomatically.

“Oh,” she says. “In any case, your firsthand knowledge of the region may well be in need this day for we have reports Lannisport has been overrun by former Lannister bannermen.”

“My son,” Bolton attempts to intervene, his voice confident, but she will not allow it.

“About your son, Lord Bolton, I received a raven from Ser Godfry, and your son –Ramsay, correct? – has been slain. Curious that a pack of hounds were set on the king’s men as they approached Winterfell. The castle is in a poor state but is now in the king’s hands.”

“How is it your son did not respect my banners?” Stannis asks, his level tone belying the severity of the accusation.

The man is silent a moment, only staring at her, his skin too pale already to appear bloodless. “Your grace, I cannot interpret these events. I had sent word to my son to turn over Winterfell to the king’s castellan and head for the West with my men.” The silence as Stannis looks to her must be crushing for Bolton.

She’s surprised to hear Brynden speak up, “Your grace, Lady Melisandre, is there news from Deepwood Motte? With their loss at Moat Cailin, the ironborn may turn to more vulnerable waters.”

“Very true,” the maester puts in. “They have always been a threat to trading in Lannisport.”

“We need a fleet on that side of the kingdoms,” Stannis says with a sigh. There’s a hard look in his eyes as he directs them at her. Davos, he needs him, and he blames her for his loss.

“I will write to Alekyne and ask him to command a fleet from the Reach to secure Lannisport,” Melisandre suggests. “And yes, Deepwood Motte has been rid of the ironborn.”

“You'd best to have a land force also, your grace," Tallhart adds a rare word.

"We do need a land force, too. One to stay in the region and willing to take up the banners for the West. Casterly Rock must only be holding on by its walls,” Stannis says. “Brynden, how many retainers does Edmure have at Riverrun?”

“He could have fifty to a hundred men,” Brynden answers.

“I will ask he join with Rolland’s force once he has secured Harrenhal and have them head to the West.” Stannis doesn’t call it rebellion, but the region must be secured.

“Harrenhal will not be an easy fight. The Mountain is one thing, but his men are no trifle. Let’s pray Rolland’s force does not need further reinforcements to head west,” Brynden says, shaking his head.

“If that is the case, the North is all but secure. Melisandre, tell Godfry to prepare to send half his force to Riverrun to intercept with Rolland’s party. Those willing to stay in the Westerlands.”

“The warm weather will tempt them for sure,” the maester says, drawing confused looks from the others.

“Yes,” she smiles at him, “That is true. What is it the queen's house says, winter is coming.”

“Aye, it is, my lady, and after the longest summer we’ve known. Planning is important now,” he says.

“Maester,” she says. “This winter will bring more than snow and cold. The Longest Night will come again and death with it. This is why we light the fires. Ready yourselves, plan as you must, but trust in your king. He bears the sword that will end our plight. Your hope lies with your king.”

She had kept the maester’s gaze but looks to Brynden and Roose also. Tallhart knows. It is no mere king they sit with, and it is best they are reminded of that and what lies ahead.

“You are from where, my lady?” The maester asks.

“From Asshai,” she says with a tight smile, knowing he is like to dismiss her statement as maesters stay in their own way.

“Lady Melisandre,” Stannis says, “is my most revered advisor, maester. Visions come to her in the flames. Visions that have been made true. The Lord of Light cast his light upon me at the Battle of the Blackwater, else I would not have even set foot in King’s Landing. The lady will serve as my Hand. Serve her in all things, maester.” 

The maester looks on her with new eyes, and she is grateful to Stannis for his assertion of her place here.

“Considering Davos’s position, I ask you, my lady, if there is any evidence you have come across in regards to Robb Stark’s death?” Brynden brings up next.

“The queen has taken up an inquiry as well, I understand,” she responds.

“Nothing of it yet,” Brynden says.

“What is she doing?” Stannis asks.

“Sansa has sent out a number of letters asking for information in regards to her brother’s death,” Brynden answers.

“Signed as the queen?” Stannis looks at her instead, taken aback. “You allowed her to do this?”

“She is the queen. I believe she can send letters if she wants,” Brynden says in defense of her.

“She took it upon herself. There is no harm in it,” she tells him. She can tell he is somewhat annoyed. “I have interviewed Ser Wendel myself, ser, and may have located a maidservant as a witness. More important though, there is another matter in conjuction with this inquiry that I would draw to your attention, your grace,” Melisandre says.

“Yes, Melisandre,” he says.

She rises from her place at the table and heads to the door, opening to see Lady Catelyn waiting and looking cross despite her splendid facade. Sansa had to learn it somewhere. “You summoned me?” She says.

“Yes, please join us, my lady,” Melisandre says, turning and leading the way back in. She can see the Tullys exchange looks as Catelyn takes the seat next to her uncle.

“I’ve asked Lady Catelyn here because I understand she has met with an enemy of the crown. Petyr Baelish. Could you tell us where he is and why you did not communicate your meeting with him directly to your king?”

“Your spies are everywhere, are they?” Catelyn says.

“Cat,” Brynden says to curtail her.

“Knowing what occurs in a inn just down the Rosby Road from King’s Landing is hardly having a network of spies,” Melisandre responds with a smile.

“What lengths must a mother go to get justice for her son’s murder? A man in my service saw a Frey man cut him down, one the likes of Hosteen Frey. Could he not be brought to King’s Landing to face this witness? Others were involved in this plot, and my own daughter, the queen, could be at risk, and nothing is done. Yes, I met with Petyr Baelish who said he had some information about this matter. He had no proof either.” Melisandre sees Bolton watch on with a strange sort of smile. No definite ties to him yet, just superficial ones but those speak volumes enough.

“Lady Catelyn will be confined to her chambers. See that this is so, Ser Brynden,” Stannis declares immediately.

“You would keep me from my daughter, your grace?” Catelyn asks, distraught.

“She may visit you,” Stannis allows.

Melisandre says next, “From what I understand, this plot, if it exists, is in reaction to a slight Robb Stark made in not honoring his betrothal to Lord Frey’s daughter, is it not?”

“Yes,” Brynden says.

“I do not see anything yet that could warrant a threat to the queen in this,” she tells them. “Tell me, Lady Catelyn, Baelish is with your sister, is he not?”

The woman is silent at first, looking to her with cold, blue eyes before she answers, looking to Stannis, “Your grace, he is with my sister, I believe. She is ill of mind and may not realize her error against your grace.”

“She must bring him forthwith to King’s Landing for justice or face losing her seat,” Stannis says. “A letter of demands will be sent. Ready an emissary, Lady Melisandre.” The gravity of Stannis's actions she can see surprise Lady Catelyn. She didn’t realize Stannis’s great distaste for the schemer. If only she could find where Varys has disappeared to, Pentos did not hold him for long.

“I will send for Hosteen Frey if your grace will allow it,” Brynden suggests.

“You cannot honor this continued suspicion towards my wife’s house, your grace,” Bolton says.

“I will allow it,” Stannis says, a hard look towards Bolton to let him know he is not in good standing now that Stannis has to secure the West himself. “That is all for today,” he says, rising, the stress thick on him.

She walks out with him, telling him, “I will see you for dinner, your grace, and light the fires in your chambers this night.”

He looks to her and has a small smile, then remembering something, “See my wife understands not to send out letters en masse. I don’t want her doing that.”

“Yes, my king,” she smiles before parting to fulfill the rest of her duties. He could better understand the fine line of control with his queen, good she has it in hand.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor POV: Darry Castle (short)

Stranger had been the main force to pull the gate down at Darry Castle, and Sandor had been the first one in to butcher his brother’s men holding onto it. Nothing like the feel of a sword in his hand and blood running down it to ease his mind, stepping into an old skin. The look on the men’s faces when they recognized his dog’s helm, reduced to their fears, was deeply satisfying. His brother won’t have that look though, but he won’t either, even if he’s the one to meet his end.

That is, until he cleans his sword, and he’s reminded of her. His highborn girl, giving him her house’s Valyrian steel. And then he’s reduced to the fool he is. It should be easier, away from her, but no. He feels it all through him, what it is to not have her smile, her little kisses, just the look she had when she saw him. He should’ve kissed her right there, in front of her family, in front of the Red Keep. Maybe then Stannis wouldn’t have had her then. It’s as though something inside him calls out for her over and over. Little bird. Sansa. Little bird. Sansa. No matter what he’s doing. Gods, there better be more fuckers to kill.

“Rolland,” he gets up and heads over to the knight. “Wouldn’t take much men to go root out the Crossroads Inn ahead.”

“Can’t wait a day?” He says with a snort.

“It’s midday still.”

“I won’t have my men strung out. We stay here today.”

Fuck, Sandor thinks as he returns to his horse. He takes him to the stable, finding a girl tied up there, one of the soldiers playing with her.

“Leave her the fuck alone,” he yells at the piece of shit.

The man looks to the girl, then back at him and says, “Forgot you liked ‘em redheaded.”

Picked the wrong fucking day and the wrong fucking man. Sandor grabs the man’s throat and backs him up against a post, his legs flailing as he struggles.

“Hound,” he hears behind him. Sandor turns an eye, still holding the man aloft to see three soldiers, looking surprised at him. He throws the idiot down on the ground, giving him a solid kick.

“You say another word about your queen, and that’ll be the last word you ever say.” Sandor pulls his dagger out of its sheath and walks to the girl, taking up the rope and cutting it. As though these soldiers are any better than his brother’s when it comes to a girl like this.

“Cook?” He asks the girl.

“Yes, ser.” Fucking sers.

“Don’t call me that, I’m not a fucking knight, girl.”

Tying Stranger up, he takes her over to the kitchens. Rolland stops him though, “What’s with the girl?”

“Found her with one of your men. She’d been tied up in the stable.”

Rolland gives him a look, wary to ask his purpose with the girl.

“She’ll be in the kitchens.” He tugs her along. She doesn’t like it and probably thinks she’s bound for a worse fate with him. She’ll see soon enough. The servants look like hell, but one appears happy to have the girl back.

Walking back to care for Stranger, he sees where they’re keeping Jaime Lannister, the kennels, not that there are any dogs.

He takes the guard that night, keeping to the walls, no sign of shit. Didn’t expect to. If his brother is smart and he’s not, he’d cling to the walls of Harrenhal – which is why they couldn’t let Jaime reach the castle. Still starving and fighting for your life trapped in a castle sounds like shit as it is. There’s no escape for them unless they leave now. Shit, what if they do make a run for it? Is his brother smart enough to run?

He starts back to find Rolland when he hears a thrown rock, and “Hound,” called out quietly but still cutting through the darkness of the yard. Jaime. He’d wanted to talk to him, and walks over to where he is caged up.

“Take a piss,” he tells the guard on hand, who looks him up and down in the torchlight before heading off. They don’t trust him, thinking he’ll turn back Lannister as soon as he gets the chance. Who wants to be on the losing side? Fuckers.

Jaime starts in, “So Hound, how’d you get this new post exactly? Seduce Sansa Stark? It’s true you’re her sworn shield?” Sandor chuckles. That did kind of happen, he smirks to himself in the dark.

“Aye, Jaime.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“At the Blackwater…” He starts but stops. “Like it fucking matters for you. The red witch will soon have you burned like she did your sister.” Jaime is quiet, too quiet now. “You didn’t know, did ya? Lancel, your sister, Joffrey, and Tommen, Sansa said.”

“Burned?” Jaime says, sober.

“Aye, thought you might’ve known. You’d bear the same fate if we bring you back.”

“What are you saying?”

“You have to ask?” Sandor says with a snort.

“I see.”

“You better fucking see. There’ll be a real fight soon. My bet my brother’ll come out of that castle, but he may do it to be on the run. We can’t let him get away.” He can’t see Jaime, but he’s smart enough to get his message. Run when you get the chance, take the black, cross the Narrow Sea, but don’t look back.

He heads in to find Rolland who’s there in the hall drinking with the best of them what ale they could find.

“Hound,” he calls out to him. “Something from the walls.”

“A thought,” he snorts, and the others there laugh, deep in their cups as they are.

“And what would this thought be,” Ser Rolland says with mirth.

“My brother may figure to leave Harrenhal now that the king’s force has neared. There’s no win for them.”

Rolland shifts his jaw, thinking, as he peers up at him. “We’ll need to make sure tomorrow’s scouts look for signs they’re fleeing. They can only go east at this point.”

“Aye,” he nods to the man before returning to his post.

The next morning, Sandor looks toward Jaime with a knowing exchange between them. He goes to Stranger and runs his hand over his smooth hide before squaring his saddle away. He then heads out with the guard to secure the Inn of the Crossroads.

Arriving, all there is is dust heading down the Kingsroad. He pursues, kicking Stranger to a gallop, even ahead of the other men, but it is no use. His bloodlust will not be sated this day. Should’ve fucking come the day before.

Back at the inn, he searches with the others, finding an old man down in the cellar with a few women. He drags him out and forces him against the wall.

“Want to make good with the king, then you better start talking the Mountain.” He can barely hear the weeping of the women behind him, what with the blustering of this fool. He shakes him, “Talk.”

“They’re at Harrenhal,” he barely gets out.

“No shit. How many men here?”

“Six.”

“How many there?”

“I don’t know. I just get the orders.”

“Orders?” He shakes him again.

“For foodstuffs,” one of the girls speaks up to the side. At least someone in this fucking hole has some grit. He drops the man and turns to her. She takes a step back, not expecting his attention.

“Go on.”

“They’re due a shipment. The men were here for it, but you got here too soon.”

“Just in time, wench.” He looks to the other men with him for a moment before he decides, “You and your father or whatever here better get on that cart and take those supplies down.”

“What?” He hears a few of the men say confused.

“I can’t,” she says, fear clear in her eyes, and he understands then. Harrenhal is a death sentence, especially for a woman.

He turns back to the man, pulling him up, and says, “You. You’ll go. Tell him his little brother sends his regards and says fuck the Lannisters, he’d rather fuck the queen.”

“Hound!” One of the men calls out.

“It’ll get his fucking attention,” he yells back at him. The old man staggers to the door. He catches the eye of the one wench before he heads back to the cellar, grabbing as much Dornish red as he can carry. He takes a spot by the hearth and settles in for a stupor.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and story associated with A Song of Ice and Fire are property of G.R.R. Martin. Not trying to profit here of course :)


End file.
